


take the gun, count to three

by WingedWolf121



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mild Gore, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, everyone is bi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedWolf121/pseuds/WingedWolf121
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Grant Ward is the best her majesty’s secret service has to offer. So when M sends him out to investigate the suspicious Daniel Whitehall, he expects nothing more than a lukewarm leftover from the cold war and the chance to kick a few criminals in the face. But Whitehall hasn’t just been making himself a castle fortress—he’s been recruiting scientists. And one of them might be even grumpier than Ward.</p><p>Feat 007!Ward, Melinda May as M, Skye as the charming Moneypenny, Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons as scientists who most certainly did not sign up for this, Whitehall as the same psychopath he’s always been but with some Bondian twists, and more!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Did you ever think our lives would turn out this way?”

“Fitz…”

“No, really.” Fitz put his chin in his hand and stared out the windows. The rain lashed against the laboratory windows. If he pressed his nose to the cool glass, he could see the torrent crashing into the gully below them. The rocks were black and shone in the fluorescent lights, the only illumination on the whole of the mountain. “When we were at Cambridge together, getting our graduate degrees, did you think we’d end up here?”

“Well, no.” Simmons put her test tube down. “I must admit, being captives in South Ossetia was _not_ what I anticipated.”

“Research opportunity.” Fitz said gloomily. “Go to the private sector, the info session said. No longer will you be reliant on precarious government funds. Pick your own working hours. Make millions, contribute to the world.”

“ _Fitz_.” Simmons said. She glanced across the laboratory. They were the only two there. “Be careful.”

“What’s he going to do to me, lock me in a castle?”

“Don’t be so maudlin.” Simmons scolded. She held out a test tube. “Here, put this under a microscope, I extracted it from one of the samples Bakshi brought in. I think it might be explosive.”

“More bombs. Great.” Fitz muttered.

“Fitz.” Simmons hissed. She grabbed his arm. They could hear footsteps outside the laboratory door. Both waiting. Simmons’ hands were tight fists where she’d shoved them in her lab coat pockets. The footsteps came to a sharp halt, then retreated. It was no more than the standard late night patrol.

“Typical.” Fitz said. “Bloody typical.”

“Just look at the sample.” Simmons said wearily. “We need to show him something for the month’s work, and it’s not as though building bombs is inflicting any _new_ horrors on the world.”

Fitz glared at the microscope, and the innocuous spread of black rock on the slide beneath it. “We could tell him to sod off.”

“We would die.” Simmons took a deep breath. “Fitz, please. I don’t know who he’d kill first and I really don’t want to see you shot, and I’d like to think you feel the same way.”

“Of course I don’t want to see anyone shoot you.” Fitz pulled his stool over to the sample. “Where’s my pen, I want to write down notes.”

“Right here.” Simmons was already pushing it across the counter.

“I’d kill him, for the record.” Fitz added. “If he tried to kill you. I don’t care if he’s got”

“a complex full of guards, machine guns, resources and rich friends?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Fitz began to scribble down notes.

Simmons leaned her chin on his shoulder. “Who knows, Fitz. Maybe today is the day that a knight in shining armor comes around to sweep us up and get us out of here.”

Fitz snorted. “Jemma, please.”

“Maybe he’ll be tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Maybe Mr. Whitehall will win the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Simmons shoved his shoulder. Fitz snickered and kept jotting down notes.

\--

It was pouring rain in London, and that was enough to put 007 in a bad mood. He hurried up the narrow steps to the office with a scowl on his face and water dripping off the hem of his coat, well aware that he was tramping mud on the carpet.

“Morning Ward.” Skye leaned across the desk when she saw him, putting her chin in her hands.

Ward grunted at her as he hung up his coat and hat. Skye giggled. “What?”

“Did you have a nice night on Saturday?” Skye asked. She kicked back her chair and put her feet on the desk. Skye was supposed to be a temporary secretary, and she’d held onto the job by no means Ward could understand. He suspected it had something to do with her either her clinging sweaters or the fact that she could withstand even their top agent’s most deadly stare.

That stare, for the record, belonged to Ward, and it had once made a Russian general cry.

“It was great.” Ward said. He leaned a hip against the desk. “I blew up a plane.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be working Saturdays anymore?” Skye asked. She tapped her toes together. Skye was wearing pink heels, in flagrant disrespect to the M16 dress code. “After that time you went out to that one bar and got into that fight with the officer who _totally_ deserved it.”

“He did deserve it.”

“Ward, you threatened to sell him to a Chinese triad.”

“ _Did_ I sell a police officer to a Chinese triad?”

“Not yet.” Skye tossed her hair back. “Aren’t you going to ask what I did on Saturday night?”

“No.”

“I went out and had _way_ too many shots, woke up with a new tattoo, and still no one proposed to me.” Skye crossed her legs, so her skirt slid up her thigh. “Want to see the tattoo?”

Ward’s eyebrow rose. “Is it in a place that needs double-o clearance to investigate?”

“It’s in a place that needs a double-o salary for discreet removal.” Skye replied. “And have I mentioned that you’ve always been my _favorite_ agent?”

“I bet you say that too all the guys in suits.”

“Only the ones with empty lives.” The phone at Skye’s elbow rang. She leaned over and picked it up. “M will see you now.”

“Thanks.” Ward nodded to her. “Think it’ll be good news?”

“You and I have different definitions of good, but I bet you’ll end up getting to shoot somebody.”

“That’s all I ever ask.” Ward stepped past Skye, dodging her attempt to whack his calf with a heel. It was also possible that M kept Skye around as a way to test agent reflexes. If so, Ward had a few bruises that might relegate him to a desk job in Q-branch.

He pushed open the door and went into M’s office. It was a room more conservative than the power of the operative who worked there. The walls were smooth wood, and the tall windows looked out over London. Every panel of glass was bulletproof, and every panel of wood concealed some sort of switch.

Like the room, the woman who sat behind the desk was full of secrets. She indicated for Ward to sit. He did so, in a leather chair discreetly bolted to the floor. M had a single file on her desk, her hands folded across it. It was plain manila, marked only with TOP SECRET in bright red and 007 in conservative blue.

“I have your next assignment.” M said. M could convey more doom in those five words than most agents could in a manifesto. It was rumored that every file on her tenure as a field agent was entirely redacted, and that she was single handedly responsible for the elimination of no less than forty two former UN officials. Ward thought she was a handsome woman, and was very glad she was on their side. “What do you know about archeology?”

That was what he loved about his job. Always the surprises. “Nothing, ma’am.”

“Wonderful.” M pushed the file across the desk. Ward opened it, half expecting to see a jewel thief. It was a middle aged man with hair that was pale blonde fading to white, and round glasses. “Daniel Whitehall.”

“I don’t know him.” Ward said.

“You shouldn’t. He’s one of the Eastern restorationist crowd. Very rich, hobbies in buying medieval properties to restore them and funding digs in random but unnervingly fruitful sites. Famous for his private collection and his generous hand in donations.”

Ward’s brow furrowed. “And…we care?”

M stared at him. Ward began to read the file. “Pay attention. Some of this was too sensitive to write down.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Whitehall just restored a fortress on Mount Khalatsa. Reports say it cost over a billion pounds sterling.” M said the words flatly.

This time, Ward restrained his question about why they cared.

“The British Museum finds this figure grossly inflated.” M said.

“You asked?” Ward inquired.

“Whitehall is American. The CIA won’t release his record to us.” M’s lips tightened. So much for international cooperation. “I suspect equally generous contributions to Congress. And that’s off-record, 007.”

“Yes ma’am.” Ward nodded. “What the Americans do is none of our business.”

“Precisely.” M’s eyes narrowed. “But in the last five years, Whitehall has bought half the Greater Caucus Mountains.” Ward’s eyebrows raised. “You don’t need to buy a mountain range to fix up a few castles.”

“Do I take him out?”

“Generous contributions to Congress say that would be received poorly across the waters.” M said.

“Am I arranging an accident?”

“We can’t kill a man on suspicion.” M said. Ward’s eyebrows rose just a tad. “But our agent in South Ossetia says that Whitehall is dangerous.”

“I didn’t think we had someone in South Ossetia.” Ward commented.

“We have W.”

“Who’s W?” That wasn’t even a section, so far as Ward knew.

M stared at him. Ward mentally redacted the question. “Anyway. The agent is sure that Whitehall has secrets, and suggests the potential for outright lunacy. I don’t plan to wait around until this deranged billionaire snaps.” Ward could certainly concur with that logic. He was less sure of what M wanted _him_ to do about Whitehall’s potential insanity. “Whitehall is throwing a _gala_ one week from today in his fortress on Mount Khalatsa, purportedly to celebrate his successful restoration.”

“He spent a billion pounds on this and can afford to party afterward?”

“W also found it strange.” M nodded to his file. “You’ll be posing as a representative from the British Museum.”

 Ward blinked. “A what?”

“A curator. Interested in purchasing from the collection. I assure you, no one there will look twice at you, especially as they’re all aware that the museum can’t afford Whitehall’s prices.” M’s lips twisted up.

It looked like he was going to spend the next week memorizing obscure facts about the British Museum. Wonderful. “If I judge him dangerous—”

“You will report back to me.” M cut him off.

“Ma’am, I’m a double-o.” Ward said. “Why am I on this mission, if we don’t want Whitehall dead?”

“Because you’re the only agent we have with decent South Ossetian contacts.” M said grimly. “And you haven’t seen the guest list. This party has metal detectors.” Ward’s ears pricked up. “These are dangerous people on hostile ground, we damn well have to send a double-o.”

_That_ sounded more interesting. Ward bent in head in silent apology.

“Q branch will outfit you. And one last thing, 007—the whole region is still teeming with unstable separatist groups. Neither the Russian nor Georgian governments would appreciate M16 meddling.”

Ward paused. “Isn’t that exactly what we’re doing, ma’am?”

“They don’t need to know that.” M said. She waved him out. Ward left. Skye had the phone to ear, and looked to be actually working. She stopped when she saw Ward.

“Looks like I might get to shoot someone.” Ward said. He tipped his hat to her and went back out into the rain.

\--

Q Branch was several floors beneath M’s office, far enough down that any explosions wouldn’t rattle her teacups. Ward rode down in an elevator, watching through the glass as each floor started to look more and more like a clinic. When he finally stepped into the subterranean chambers, even the air felt sterile.

“Welcome, 007.” There was an agent waiting to meet him at the door.

“Agent Coulson.” Ward bowed his head respectfully. M preferred to use Coulson mostly for internal matters these days, but he had a certain reputation. He’d been 008 since probably before Ward was born. “I didn’t know you were part of Q, sir.”

“I’m not. This is a special occasion.” Coulson began to walk. Ward fell into step beside him. They passed one agent fiddling with dials for a test chamber. There was another agent inside wearing a test suit. Ward watched with idle curiosity as the interior of the chamber burst into flames. When they burned out, the agent in the suit took off her headgear and shook her head, saying something into a mike that made the other agent swear. There was also an agent staring down the barrel of a gun talking to themselves, and another hunched over a bunch of test tubes sniffing differently colored vapors.

Ward deeply disliked coming down to Q branch. He would rather have had a knife, a gun, and a cyanide pill.

“Standard Beretta. No ballistics, no numbers.” Coulson handed him the gun. Ward took it and weighed it in his hand. It was a bit lighter than his personal handgun, but still beautifully balanced, and perfectly untraceable.

“Thank you sir.”

“You also get these.” Coulson walked over to a table and held up a pair of glasses. They were wide rimmed, dark brown. Not the usual raptor sunglasses, which were equipped with night-vision and heat vision. They were much nerdier. Ward mentally sighed. “They have X-ray and photo capability. The knob on the top right does X-ray, the left takes a picture. Adjust them for resolution.”

“I have excellent vision, sir.” _And I know how to break into a safe._

“I’m sure M told you that we’re not technically supposed to be in South Ossetia.” Coulson said. “With these glasses you can simply photograph the contents of safes, crates, whatever you feel you need. They can’t see through walls, but they can get damn close. You take nothing, you leave no fingerprints, and you don’t break, damage, blow up, or injure anything or anyone.” Coulson smiled blandly, as if they specified that for every agent.

“Yes sir.” Ward said.

“Oh, and not that you’ll need it, but here. Standard transmitter for tracking and rescue purposes. Q now recommends fitting into the toe of your shoe, as certain agencies now search the heel.” Coulson passed him a tiny circular disk.

“If it’s in the toe, how am I supposed to discreetly activate it for a rescue?”

“That’s what I said.” Coulson shook his head. “Terrible, terrible, idea. I want them to make one shaped like a cufflink.”

“But then we’d have to make two, and people find two.” Ward turned to the new voice. It was Agent Alphonso Mackenzie, who actually worked in Q. Ward was rather glad to see that someone who knew how these gadgets worked was there. Agent Mackenzie nodded to him. “My qualified recommendation was that agents pack mobiles.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Coulson asked.

“The fun comes next.” Agent Mackenzie replied. He pressed a button in the wall. “007, may I present to you the crowning glory of the current collection.”

Ward watched as the panel slid up. It was a car.

“She’s a cherry-red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette.” Coulson said. His voice was reverential.

“She has revolving plates outfitted for ten different countries, including Britain, Russia, and the former block. Bullet proof outer shell, and bullet proof glass. Properly bullet proof, not the kind that cracks and sets you up to crash.” Mack added. “Buttons on the dashboard will give you access to two machine guns we wired into the headlights, a flamethrower in the undercarriage, and the best satellite gps money can buy.”

“And she can fly.” Coulson said. Ward honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Cherry red, sir?” He asked instead. “I thought MI6 cars were built for discretion.”

“You’re going to a fancy party.” Coulson said. “You need a beautiful girl with you. Her name is Lola.”

“…okay.”

“Agent Ward, you should know.” Coulson smiled. “If you so much as scratch her paint job, I will kill you.”

Ward was absolutely sure he wasn’t joking.  “Yes sir.”

“Goodbye now.” Coulson backed away, still smiling.

“He and the car have some sentimental attachments.” Agent Mackenzie said. “I had to go right over his head to get permission to work on her.” Ward quietly noticed that Agent Mackenzie _also_ thought the car had a gender. “Be careful with her, and not just for Coulson. The driver-seat ejection packs a punch.”

“I’ll be careful.” Ward said. “Anything else?”

“Your tux is being dropped at your flat. It’s a Brioni. Solid black, beautiful bow tie, please wear it well. Your passport and invitation will be in the jacket pocket.” Agent Mackenzie grinned. “We tailored it specifically to disguise the shoulder holster, so if you wouldn’t mind keeping it clean…”

“I’ll do my best.” Ward said. He nodded to the agent. “Be seeing you.”

“Good luck. Think of us in the lab while you’re eating caviar and drinking champagne.” Agent Mackenzie waved him away. He was a tall man, even taller than Ward, and he had muscles that could probably lift Lola. It made him stick out in a crowd. That, plus his genius intellect, had stuck him in Q branch. Ward sometimes wondered if he would rather have been in the field. If so, he didn’t express his discontent to Ward, who only saw him a few times a year anyway.

“Will do.” Ward left the lab, glasses in one hand and Beretta in the other.


	2. Chapter 2

Daniel Whitehall’s ballroom was ostentatious to the extreme. Ward could feel the money bleeding out of the plush red carpeting under his feet. The wood that paneled the walls was no doubt extinct, and the glittering white gems in the chandelier were no doubt Congo diamonds.

There were two balconies that overlooked the room. The velvet curtains draped around them were ideal for concealing snipers. Ward’s eyes slid casually over them, then over the guests who had already arrived. Ward could spot the dangerous ones. They were the ones who wore diamonds, and the ones surrounding them whose arms strained the cut of their tuxedos. Bodyguards, and the people who hired them. Then a smattering of fellow historians, bunched into tight knots and all looking either overwhelmed or elated.

Nobody was armed. Every guest had to walk through a metal detector after handing over their invitation. Ward had been smart enough to leave his Beretta in a secret compartment beneath the seat of the car. A few other guests hadn’t been, and had to hand their weapons over to a smiling concierge.

That left only the guns on Whitehall’s personal guard. Ward cased them as he entered the room. It was several feet lower than the entrance hall, so the whisper of silk dresses across steps accompanied the ladies as they entered. Ward noticed that in addition to what were clearly guards on the doors to the kitchens and beyond, the doors all locked automatically. A waiter heading back inside with an empty tray had to press a card to a panel in order to fetch more hors d’oeuvres.

Whitehall was either immensely paranoid, or he had something to hide. He’d have to keep an eye on when the shift changed. Ward forced his smile and walked down the steps, casually adjusting his cuffs. Armed guards or no armed guards, the scariest thing about this evening was the fact that he’d had to pass the car keys off to a valet, and they might scratch the paint.

He snagged a glass of champagne off an exquisitely dressed waiter and scanned the room. Whitehall looked exactly like his pictures. Ward’s brow wrinkled. He looked _exactly_ like his pictures. There wasn’t even a wrinkle to show that his dossier had probably been composed years ago.

Some people had all the best genetics. But the group of laughing people around him showed their age. Most of the young people here were either hired guns or hired staff. The only millionaire by Whitehall who didn’t have grey in their hair was a striking woman in a high collared black gown, with red streaks in her dark curls. Ward paused a second to appreciative the view.

He could almost hear his SO telling him not to take so much pleasure in his work.

Anyway. Sidling into that tight knit circle wouldn’t be worth the trouble. They were all too close. Besides, the woman smelled married. Ward let his gaze wander to the bar.

Well, hello.

Who said that work couldn’t be fun?

\--

Leopold Fitz might have been a little bit drunk. In his defense, there wasn’t much else to do. No one at this party had much interest in talking to him. And the guards were excessively muscular enough to carry him back to bed, no question.

The bar was in the center of the room, a big circle of polished wood right beneath the chandelier. From his stool, Fitz could watch while all sorts of rich and morally depraved persons socialized and flashed their family jewels at each other.

“How does the chandelier work again?” Simmons was even more of a little bit drunk. She was next to him, with both of her elbows on the bar, posing in a way that didn’t show off the expensive dress Whitehall bought for her. It was black velvet, and splashed with sequins that shone under the lights.

“I couldn’t even begin to tell you.” Fitz replied. “There are _so_ many wires. Physics is beautiful.”

“It is beautiful.” Simmons said. She raised her hand to call the bartender. “Could I have another round, please? Fitz, pony up.”

“I don’t remember it being my turn.” Fitz mumbled. Bloody rude, that was what this whole shindig was. The drinks were all exorbitantly priced and nothing was on the house unless you were Daniel bloody Whitehall. He still reached into his jacket and forked over the cash.

“Physics, Fitz.” Simmons propped her hand on her elbow and watched the bartender pour. “Beautiful.”

“You look beautiful too.” Fitz said.

“You’re so sweet.” Simmons smiled at him. Fitz patted her shoulder. She giggled and burped a little. “Oh, my.”

“Bit less beautiful now.”

“Shut up.” Simmons wobbled to her feet. “I suppose I ought to go to the loo”

“and sober up a bit?” Fitz finished. “No, you’re be fine. Don’t leave me here alone.”

“Never would.” Simmons said. “But I really need to pee.” She giggled suddenly. “And someone’s been _looking_ at you from across the room.”

“You mean other than the snipers on the balcony?”

“Fitz.” Jemma said fondly. “None of the snipers care about us.”

Bah. She was right. Fitz waved despondently as Jemma disappeared into the crowd, making her way to the women’s toilet across the hall. It was absolutely an excessive hall. Nobody needed this much space just to make an impression. He scowled into his drink. It was empty and that was even more monumentally unfair than the fact that the chandelier had two hundred and sixteen diamonds while he had _no_ diamonds.

Someone slid onto the stool next to him. “Hey.”

Fitz turned around, perfectly willing and able to tell this fellow to fuck the fuck off, and almost fell off his stool.

“I’ll have a vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred. And another round for him.” The man looked down at Fitz, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Blimey, but he was tall, dark, and handsome. And probably rich and morally reprehensible too, how typical. “Ward. Grant Ward.”

“Leopold Fitz.” Fitz shook his hand. Ward lingered over the touch, his eyes dark. Fitz tried not to breathe too heavily. “I go by Fitz.”

“Fitz.” Ward said it slowly, like he was tasting every letter. “I like it. So, _Fitz_. What’s the best looking guy in the room doing sitting at the bar alone?”

“I, uh.” Fitz took the beer the bartender slid across to him. Ward pressed his fingers to the stem of the martini glass and lifted it up, taking a sip without ever breaking eye contact with Fitz. “Not really my sort of party.”

“Mine neither.” Ward leaned in, under the pretense of inspecting Fitz’s beer. “Heineken? I had you for a scotch man, with that Glasgow accent.”

“Are you buying?” Fitz asked. He grinned.

“Barman.” Ward turned. “A scotch. Best you have.” Ward tossed another couple bills on the bar. Fitz tried not to peek at the denominations. Ward grinned at him and passed the tumbler. Fitz took a speculative sip of the amber liquor. As a rule, he was a beer man. But fuck him if he was going to deter the handsome ones from buying him expensive things.

Across the room, he saw Simmons shoot him a thumbs-up, and gesture at the ladies room. She was going to spend the rest of the party hiding in the loo if he needed her. God, what a woman.

“So.” Ward said. “If you don’t like parties like this one, what are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Had to represent the company.” Fitz said glumly.

“Oh?”

“I work for Mr. Whitehall.” Fitz couldn’t help his grimace of distaste. Ward’s eyebrows rose.

“You don’t look like most of my colleagues.”

“What, not another young millionaire?”

“I work for the British Museum.” Ward shrugged. He hadn’t moved away from Fitz, and the proximity was still making it a wee bit hard to breathe. “We wanted to see if Mr. Whitehall would sell us any of his treasures.” He glanced down with a slight laugh. “Somehow, I think anything he has in here is out of what I’ve got to offer.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Fitz said, bringing his scotch to his lips again. “I bet there’s lots of things in here you could have.”

“I hope I don’t go back to London completely unsatisfied.” Ward said. Fitz glanced around them. He was going back to London. What if Fitz could sneak a message with him, get it to…who, his parents? Scotland Yard? What were they going to do? “What do you do for Mr. Whitehall?”

“I’m an engineer.” Fitz couldn’t tell him. He wasn’t quite selfish enough to drag the handsome innocent historian into this hell.

“You were in charge of construction?” Ward asked.

“Oh, if _only_.” Fitz muttered.

“Boss doesn’t appreciate you?” Ward asked sympathetically.

“No, he bloody well doesn’t.” Fitz said. Ward raised his hand to the bartender, and another scotch was put in front of Fitz. Fitz took an aggressive swing, and almost choked. Luckily, Ward’s eyes were intent on the beads of liquid at the edge of Fitz’s mouth. “He, er.”

“He, er?” Ward asked.

“Well he made me attend this bloody party.” Fitz said. “And you wouldn’t believe the standards, every wire has to be perfectly in place for his idiotic outdated designs. Doesn’t even let us pick the colors! There’s no element of creative control on the lab end, it’s all just do _this_ , do _that_ , make me this make me that, and do we ever get thanks? Not a bloody bit.”

“That’s awful.” Ward shook his head in disgust.

“I get _no_ respect.” Fitz grumbled.

“How about the labs?” Ward asked. “Close by?” His eyes smoldered. “You could give me a tour, show me your _private_ office.”

Fitz opened and closed his mouth. “Ah. They’re locked up for the night.” Ward’s face fell. It made him look like a mournful Labrador retriever. Fitz wondered absently if sucking his dick would cheer him up. His eyes went automatically to Ward’s well-tailored suit pants.

“Damn.” Ward breathed. His eyes flickered up past Fitz, to the kitchen doors behind him.

“The black sea lobster is gorgeous.” Fitz offered.

“Not really what I’m hungry for.” Ward’s eyes darkened as Fitz gulped down the last of his scotch. “You sure you couldn’t get us into your rooms upstairs?”

“Whitehall’s put all his security around the hall.” Fitz breathed. “Trust me. You don’t want to mess with the boss’s security.”

“Dammit.” Ward’s knuckles tightened on his martini. Fitz tried to think coherent thoughts as Ward’s eyes crawled over his body. “Dammit. Tell me more about your work, before I do something embarrassing.”

“Not much to tell.” Fitz said. He seemed to be inching inextricably closer to Ward. “I ah, I do a lot with my hands.”

“Fingerwork.” Ward’s chest rose and fell.

“Oh, you have no idea what I do with my fingers.” Fitz said. Ward pressed another scotch on him. “Just spend most of my time making things explode.”

“I can imagine.” Ward said. His eyes slid to Fitz’s pants, then away across the room. He bent his head down, close enough that Fitz could smell his cologne. “You know, there’s still the bathroom.”

“Right.” Fitz downed his drink, slid off the stool, and grabbed at Ward’s bow tie. Ward chuckled and put a hand at the base of Fitz’s back to steady him. “Just across the hall.”

“I know.” Ward said. His hand slid down to cup Fitz’s arse. They were standing close enough that no one could see. “I’ve been thinking about getting you alone since I walked in.”

“Excellent.” Fitz breathed. He reached back to snatch at Ward’s crotch. He felt enough there to grab hold. Ward made a muffled sound in his throat and began to shove Fitz through the crowd, using the hand on his arse to direct him.

Ward pushed open the door to the toilets and kicked it closed behind them. He pushed Fitz against the wall by the urinals, not bothering to get them to a stall. Fitz growled and yanked at the buttons of Ward’s tuxedo. Ward pushed his hands up and away and began to press hot kisses to Fitz’s throat.

“Oy.” Fitz panted. “Pants.”

“No.” Ward muttered. He licked at Fitz’s collarbone. “Why did Whitehall want you here at the party?”

“What?” Ward ran his teeth along Fitz’s neck. Fitz moaned and tried to grab at Ward’s crotch. Ward pushed Fitz’s hands against the wall. He had arms like bloody iron bars. “I don’t…he likes having us with him. We’re the smartest ones.”

“I bet you’re smart.” Ward said, his breath hot. He moved up, _finally_ , to kiss Fitz properly on the mouth. His lips tasted like salt and vermouth, and Fitz kissed hard enough that Ward’s grip on his hands loosened. Fitz shoved his hands down Ward’s pants, tearing something. He felt cotton under his hands and squeezed. “ _Fuck_ —you’re sure you can’t get to your room?”

“I’d love for you to put your dick in my arse right here.” Fitz breathed. Ward groaned and kissed him again. He detached with anther groan and went back to work on Fitz’s neck. “I can feel it under there and I know you fucking want to fuck me, get that big cock in me and make me scream, bet this room is soundproof.”

Ward squeezed his arse hard enough to make Fitz gasp. “Is everywhere here soundproof?”

“Oh believe it.”

“Getting up to some bad experiments in here?”

“Heinous fucking plots.” Fitz replied. He tipped his head down, trying to get at Ward’s jawline. Ward straightened instead, lifting Fitz into the air. Fitz took the hint and clamped a leg across Ward’s back. “You let me down I’ll suck your dick.”

Ward made an inarticulate noise. “Fuck.”

“That’s what I’ve been bloody saying.”

“Where’s empty?”

“Labs. Board rooms. Storage. All over.” Fitz panted. “All the security’s diverted to the party. I could get us into anywhere in the science wing with my card. Have to get there though.”

“How do you get there?”

“’S up five floors…dunno, there’s an elevator, guards.” Fitz groaned as Ward’s hand slid away from his arse and up between his legs. His hands were calloused in ways that Fitz’s previous partners hadn’t been. It made a fascinating sensation as Ward began to pump his dick. “ _Aah_.”

“How do I get there?” Ward growled in his ear.

“Get up the elevator to the fifth floor. Left wing on the westward side by the river. I know which cabinet’s got the lubricants in it too. Get me nice and slicked up before you slide in.” Fitz began to move his hips. He didn’t have the purchase to get a friction. “Get into a bloody stall.”

“I have to go.” Ward said.

“Eh?” Fitz almost fell as Ward abruptly released him. His legs were too wobbly to keep him braced against the wall. Ward was already turning away. “Where the bloody hell d’you think you’re going?”

Ward spun back around and opened his mouth. He stared at Fitz and closed it. “Nice necking with you.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

Ward hurried out of the bathroom. Fitz gaped after him.

“Oy! You…” He tried to take a step forward and looked down. Fuck. Fitz glanced around the mercifully still empty bathroom and hopped to a stall. He sat down hard on the toilet and properly undid his pants. That _wanker_ hadn’t even slid them down all the way. Fitz grasped his cock and began to take care of the problem at hand. Fuck him but his hands felt weak in comparison to the ones that had just been there.

Fitz tipped back his head and in a blast of righteous fury, pictured NASA’s best jet propulsion engineer instead of Grant Ward. But the labcoat kept blending into a well-tailored tuxedo. When Fitz came, covering his hands and mucking up the floor, it was to smoldering brown eyes.

He rebuttoned his pants. At least the arse had fingers clever enough to undo the buttons without ripping anything. Fitz dearly hoped that he’d ruined the man’s obviously more expensive pants. He walked to the sinks and looked in the mirror.

Oh, _fuck him_. Almost every inch of pale white skin was marked. Fitz stared at himself, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and suit barely still on his body. The bathroom door opened, admitting another inordinately handsome guest in an expensive suit. He took one look at Fitz and ducked out of the bathroom, leaving behind a string of barely muffled laughter.

There was no way he could leave the restroom looking like this.

Fitz retreated back into his stall and searched in his pockets for his phone. There was only one contact there. “Jemma?”

“Fitz! I thought you’d be occupied.”

“Yeah, let me _tell_ you about how that went.” Fitz scowled. “I can’t go back to the party.”

“What?!”

“I’m…marked.” He heard Jemma burst into giggles over the phone. “Stop it!”

“I’m sorry, but really…” Jemma managed to quiet herself.

“This party is ridiculous.” Fitz said. “Want to just go back to our rooms?”

“Oh, yes.” Jemma said, sounding relieved. “I just overheard two women talking about the most disgusting subjects while they were refreshing their make-up. I know Mr. Whitehall will be angry but…”

“But Mr. Whitehall can stick a test tube up his arse?”

“I was going to say an electron microscope, but same principle.” He heard rustling. “I’ll meet you in the elevator.”

“Yeah…” Fitz reached into his pocket. “Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“I dropped my card.”

“ _Fitz_!”

“It’s just not here!” Fitz went through his pockets. He looked on the tiled floor, and then peeked out of the stall at the urinal where he’d been almost debauched. “Shite. I’m stuck here.”

“The security man will let you in anyway if you’re with me.” Jemma said. “He likes me.”

“Ugh. Meet you at the door then.” Fitz turned his collar up and hurried out of the toilet. The thin strip of black did appallingly little to hide his condition. He was sure he could sense half the lunatics in attendance getting ideas.

Jemma, luckily, was more composed. She was chattering away to the security guard when Fitz snuck up. “Really? Full dental? Why, that’s just amazing! Fitz and I have health benefits too, of course, but I haven’t checked…and here’s Fitz now.” Jemma smiled at him.

The guard took one look at Fitz and began to giggle. Fitz glared at him.

“Oh, poor Fitz.” Jemma took his arm and raised her arm to tap her pass against the door. The guard didn’t stop giggling as he let them through.

Fitz twisted around to glare as the door swished behind them. Outside of the ballroom, the walls were bare stone. The guests had _no idea_. “Wanker.”

“Fitz, have you been drinking? Er, more?”

“Yes.” Fitz wobbled slightly. “Scotch.”

“Oh, dear.” Jemma wrapped an arm around him. “Come on. Let’s pop into the lab before we go, snatch up a vial of the hangover cure we keep in the fridge for this morning. It should be deserted.”

“No, that’s fine.” Fitz sighed and rubbed at his tousled hair. “I’ll go myself, you head off to bed. No sense in both of us getting in trouble with the guards.”

“All right.” Simmons said. She shot him a fond look as she gave him her card. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, see you.” Fitz rubbed at his mouth again. Still, the taste of vermouth lingered.

\--

The elevator door opened with a faint hum. Ward poked his head out, checking for guards before stepping out. The scientist had been right. Whitehall had shifted all of his security down, counting on having an unbroken perimeter around his guests. Up here, it was deserted.

Ward crept down the hall. None of the doors were labelled. Experimentally, he took out the scientist’s card and tapped it against a lock at random. The door slid open, with the same hum as the elevator. Ward guessed that it was a measure on Whitehall’s part to make sure that no one could move around completely soundlessly while not cluing in the people below.

The door beyond was a laboratory. A few test tubes fizzled. Ward didn’t recognize whatever chemical process was happening.

He could recognize that this wasn’t how you were supposed to authentically restore a castle. He walked on the ball of his feet, trying to stay quiet. Whitehall had stripped the floors and walls to put in the wires necessary for lab equipment, and the hollow space below was prone to echo. In deference to his cover, Ward was offended.   

The next two rooms were exactly the same. After the fifth opened, Ward cast a speculative look at the card. Did it open _every_ door?

If so, that scientist was more important than Ward thought. And Ward was wasting his time poking around labs he didn’t understand when he should have been finding Whitehall’s office.

He began to walk back toward the elevator. A faint hum stopped him. Ward flung himself back, flattening his body against one of the lab doors. The footsteps that came down the hall were slow, and not entirely steady. They didn’t sound dangerous.

Ward held his breath. One of the doors hummed opened. He leaned forward to see which one just as it closed.

Intuition made him follow. Any business urgent enough to call someone away from the party downstairs was business he wanted to know about. Ward touched his card to the scanner. The door opened and Ward burst in, wishing he had a gun.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Fitz demanded. Ward stopped in his tracks. Fitz was in front of a fridge, holding a gently smoking vial in one hand and a large mug in the other. Ward rapidly took in the room. No other exits, a half dozen different plastic storage bins, and two industrial style fridges.

“I got lost.” Ward lied.

“You…” Fitz stared at him, his hands wringing. He looked like he was going through some sort of existential crisis. “Don’t think that I’m not going to rip you a new one later but come on, you’ve got to get out of here.”

Ward’s eyebrows raised. “Really.”

“You’re in danger just being on this floor, let alone this _room_ …” Fitz went past him, peeking out the door. Ward crouched down to examine one of the crates. He took his glasses from his top pocket and put them on. “Hello! Men with guns are on the way!”

“Mhmm.” Ward touched the top left corner. The lens focused, showing Ward the picture behind the wood. Ward squinted. There were a lot of packing bubbles for heavy lab equipment. He refocused the lens.

“Oy.” Fitz grabbed his shoulder. Ward shook him off. “We need to go _right now_.”

“Do you know what’s in these?” Ward asked.

“Why do you want to know that?!” Fitz demanded. “These are top level security, why…” Fitz slowly trailed off. “You can’t get in here unless you have an access card.”

Ward grimaced.

“You stole my card. Oh my god, you _stole_ my card!” Fitz’s voice rose in pitch. Ward tapped the right top corner of his glasses to photograph the contents. But there was no way of knowing what the hell it _was_. Dammit, dammit, he should have headed to Whitehall’s office instead. But there was still time to play this without breaking cover.

That was when the door opened, and two guards with machine guns entered.

Ward reacted almost without thinking. He was on his feet in an instant and kicking, hard, at the closest one. His shoes were steel toed, and he got the man right on protruding bones of his wrist. It made him howl in pain and drop the gun. Ward hoped to hell the safety was on as he went in for the next strike, his fist burying itself in the soft flesh beneath the guard’s chin.

The man went reeling back and Ward went low, slamming his shoulder into the other’s chest. It sent him reeling off balance. His elbow went into the diaphragm next. The man doubled over and Ward snapped an arm around his neck, flipping him over to land hard on the floor.

He whirled then and kicked the other guard’s feet from under him, before he could get his breath back. He kicked him again, this time in the temple, with the same steel toes. He was out. Ward waited, breathing only a little harder than normal, to see if the other was still conscious.

He wasn’t. Ward let a smile curl at the edge of his mouth.

“What the bloody hell.” Fitz breathed. He was pressed against the crates, as far back as he was able.

Oh, fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

Ward grabbed Fitz’s arm and dragged him toward the elevator. A small part of him couldn’t help but wistfully think that the last time he’d been maneuvering Fitz somewhere, it had been significantly more fun.

“Oy! Get your bloated hands off me!” Fitz writhed, but Ward had an iron grip. “I’ll scream and call a thousand guards!”

“The thousand guards are all downstairs, remember?” Ward hissed. He shoved Fitz into the elevator. “What’s the lowest floor this elevator reaches?”

“Um. Storage.” Fitz said. Ward hit the large yellow button marked S. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No.” Ward said, then reconsidered. There was every possibility that Whitehall had a dossier with descriptions of the active agents in the intelligence community. M worked hard to keep the double-o agents out of such files, but every year it got harder. And Whitehall wasn’t without resources, clearly. If Fitz identified him…

The elevator doors opened. They must have been under the castle. The walls were mostly stone, and the lights were enormous fluorescents hanging from the ceiling. Ward warily stepped out, checking for guards.

Fitz bolted.

“Hey!” Ward shouted. His voice echoed in the vault. Fitz was hurdling along like he knew where he was going, ducking around huge boxes and loading docks. Ward swore and ran after him. Fitz was small enough to almost disappear down here.

Ward slowed his pace and cursed his own idiocy for not taking a gun off either of the guards. He didn’t think he’d need one to secure the stupid scientist. And he still didn’t, but it would be damn handy to be able to point one at him and threaten.

“Fitz.” Ward called. He kept his back against a loading bay. He didn’t dare lose sight of the elevator. “Don’t be a fool.” He inched along, listening. The acoustics of the subterranean chamber meant that every footstep echoed bewilderingly around the cavern. “Come on now. We can talk about this.”

He saw a shadow by one of the crates, and his lips peeled up in a cold smile. He walked across the gap between his loading back and the crates, the soles of his shoes barely whispering against the rock. He saw the shadow shake, just a tad.

Ward stepped around the corner. Fitz’s hand came up, and something glittered under the harsh fluorescent light. Ward bent backward, almost double, and grabbed Fitz’s wrist. He twisted it hard. Fitz let out a cry that was more indignity than pain, and his fingers opened. Ward caught the tiny vial against his palm and pushed, sending it flying away. He then slapped his fingers across Fitz’s mouth and waited.

He didn’t hear any guards coming. There must not have been any down there. Nobody ever guarded basements.

“I didn’t think you liked your boss enough to throw acid in someone’s face for him.” Ward said softly. Fitz made a muffled noise against his hand. “What was that?” Fitz viciously bit down on Ward’s middle finger. “Ow!” Ward snapped his hand away.

“That’s not acid, that’s a highly concentrated solution that transmutes to oneirogenic gas upon exposure to oxygen, you _moron_!” Fitz spluttered. “I was going to knock you out, not blind you, what is _wrong_ with you?!”

Oh. Oops. “Ah.” Ward looked at the crate Fitz had opened. There were half a hundred vials glittering there. What did Whitehall need with that much knockout gas?

“Unlike you, I’m not psychotic!” Fitz rubbed his arm against his mouth, making a disgusted noise. “And you might as well kill me because I’m not getting involved with any more of you lunatics!”

“I’m Agent 007 in her Majesty’s Secret Service.” Ward blurted out.

“Ah.” Fitz said. Ward was rewarded by a blissful moment of silence.

“How long until someone notices that those guards are gone?” Ward asked.

“Er. Probably not long at all.”

_Great_. Ward abandoned Fitz to climb on top of the crate and look around. The cavern they were in had a single set of double doors at the end, presumably for the trucks. There were four more elevators, none of them guarded.

For now. Ward hopped off. “Come on.”

“What?”

“We’re leaving while we still can.” Ward grabbed Fitz’s arm again.

“You don’t need to haul me around like a stack of luggage!” Fitz protested. “Why didn’t you just bloody say you were a secret agent in the first place?!”

“ _Secret_ agent.” Ward emphasized. He hit the button on one of the elevators.

“Well you told me anyway, so you’ve blown that to hell.” Fitz muttered. Ward scowled. “Are you going to arrest Whitehall now?”

“No. M16 doesn’t have an official presence in South Ossetia. It’s a curtesy to Russia.” Ward pressed the button for the ground floor. “I’m not here.”

“Yes you are though.” Fitz said. “And we have to go back to my room, I need to fetch my things.”

Ward cast him an incredulous look. “This place is going to go into lockdown, and you’re worried about a change of clothes?”

“No, I need to get Simmons.” Fitz said.

“What the hell is a _Simmons_?”

“She’s my partner, and I’m not leaving without her!”

“Yes you are.” Ward said. The doors opened. Ward wrapped and arm tightly around Fitz’s shoulders and leaned in close. It made Fitz’s eyes widen. Ward led him out of the elevator that way. He chuckled as they went past the guards, the sound low and deeply intimate.

“What are you doing?” Fitz whispered.

“We’re going to my car.” Ward whispered back. They approached the valet desk. Ward barely stopped touching Fitz to slide his registration from his pocket and hand it over.

“Thank you sir.” The valet said. “We’ll drive her up in just a moment.”

“Mhm.” Ward kept his head bent by Fitz’s, away from any cameras. “We’re getting in the car. We’re driving away. We’re clearing Georgia and getting to a port on the Black Sea, then I’m calling in my contact in Romania and you’re telling me everything you know about Whitehall’s research and development branch.”

“Fine. Great plan. All it needs is the part where we go back and get my best friend.”

“No, because then we add a part where we get caught.” Ward pulled Fitz outside. The sky was slowly turning grey. A valet was bringing the car around. Ward pulled a few bills from his wallet to tip the man, and opened the door for Fitz. “After you.”

“Don’t pretend to be polite.” Fitz muttered at him. Ward slammed the door after him and got into the driver’s seat. “What happens if I jump out of the car and run in there screaming?”

“Then you get to ask yourself whether your friend would rather see you get out alive and collaborate with the international intelligence community to investigate Whitehall and possibly get the authorization to conduct a raid, or have you trapped there with her.” Ward said. “Unless you two are there voluntarily.”

“Of course we’re not there _voluntarily_.” Fitz spat at him.

“Then you should be happy I’m rescuing you.” Ward said. He pressed down on the accelerator, and reached into his pocket to take out his glasses. “Start by figuring out what this is.”

“Don’t see how intelligent this community is supposed to be if it has you in it.” Fitz muttered. He examined the glasses. Ward reached down, under his seat, and pulled out his Beretta. “It was a joke, bloody hell!”

Ward lifted his eyes to the mountains around them. He reminded himself that a sudden rockslide wouldn’t help the mission. “I’m not about to shoot you.”

“Good.” Fitz said. He began to fiddle with the glasses, poking at the different dials on the corners. “Because it wasn’t a joke.”

Ward sighed. This would be a long drive.

\--

“This is rubbish.” Fitz said.

“Excuse me?”

Fitz twisted one of the lens on the glasses. It let him zoom in on the pictures Ward had done a phenomenally terrible job of taking. “It’s mostly Whitehall’s laundry.”

“Great.” Ward said under his breath. Fitz dearly hoped that Ward wasn’t going to react to this by going even faster. He’d had his foot pressed down on the accelerator as soon as it became light enough to see, and Fitz was absolutely certain that these roads weren’t safe for those speeds. He was also certain that they were going to run out of gas soon. “What sort of lunatic puts his laundry in top security crates?”

“How should I know?” Fitz demanded. “What sort of agent uses horrifically expensive advanced technology to take pictures of a bathrobe?”

Ward made an aggressive noise in his throat. It made Fitz shift in his seat. “What _do_ you know?”

“Nothing. Simmons and I—you remember Simmons, my _best friend in the world_ —stopped doing legitimate work months ago. Now we just build bombs and try to make the explosions be different colors, that sort of thing.”

“I’m not writing _that sort of thing_ into my official report.” Ward said flatly.

“I don’t think you’d understand the more technical aspects.” Fitz said. Ward’s jaw tightened, just as Fitz hoped. Fitz threw himself back in the seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “When is this raid supposed to happen?”

“Not my decision.” Ward glanced over at him. “What are you doing?”

“Did you know there’s a _flamethrower_ in your engine?” Fitz demanded. He adjusted the lens, trying to get a better look. These glasses honestly had a terrible resolution. “And you’re almost out of gas.”

“There’s a station up ahead, now quit looking under my hood.” Ward snapped. He leaned back, suddenly.

“What is it?” Fitz asked, with a sinking feeling he’d become too accustomed to since signing up for Whitehall’s recruitment seminar.

“Two cars. Black Range Rovers, looks like ten men in each.” Ward said. “Whitehall knows you’re gone.”

“Thank god the car isn’t too ostentatious or anything.” Fitz muttered.

“Just lie back.” Ward rippled his fingers over the steering wheel. Fitz adjusted his seat and curled his hands into fists. Ward was keeping his eyes on the side mirror. “We’re going to do this fast.”

“I don’t see how we could go any bloody faster than—” The force as the engine roared sent Fitz back into his seat with a gasp. “ _Ward!_ ”

“I told you to brace yourself!” Ward grabbed the gear shift with one hand. With the other he spun the steering wheel, sending the car spinning a full 360 degrees. Fitz’s nails dug into the leather seat as they went shooting forward. The wide right mirror snapped off against the side of a Rover, then they were through the hole and turning down a narrow passage in the rocks.

“No you bloody well did not!”

“It was implied.” Ward checked the mirror. The car bounced up and down as they zoomed cliffs and boulders. Fitz craned his neck to look past Ward’s shoulder at their remaining mirror. The Rovers had managed to turn around were following them, this time in a straight line. There was no way Ward could just thrust his way through again.

“Whatever you’re doing, do it faster.” Fitz said.

Ward reached forward, his fingers crooked at the knuckles. He slid his fingertips into a crack in the control panel. The car jerked as he yanked upward, revealing another set of dials hidden beneath the rest. Ward fiddled with the dials, barely paying attention to the way the car was swinging back and forth, making Fitz bite down on his own fingers as he tried to adjust the glasses lens.

The glasses could peer through ever layer of the engine, right down to the machine guns that were sliding into place where headlights should have been. Ward made a satisfied sound and reached for the gearshift. His fingers flew over unseen patches of wiring and the lever elongated. Ward wrapped his fist around the new length.

Fitz could see miles of sensitive wiring in the lever. Ward’s fingers tightened, his eyes dark and focused. There was a roar from behind the car and a slew of bullets erupted from the car’s undercarriage. The bullets caught the Rover immediately behind them in the tires. It went ratcheting back and forth.

 “Fitz, down!” Ward released the lever to shove Fitz’s head almost between his knees. A machine gun roared—not theirs. Bullets sprayed into the Chevrolet’s enormous windshield. Ward gritted his teeth and pressed down hard on his joystick.

An answering spigot of bullets streamed from below. Ward pressed the accelerator harder and they went shooting out from the narrow gorge onto another road, this one wider and wetter. The Rover skidded, torn tires unable to find purchase. Ward kept firing as it overbalanced completely and went into a bouncing roll.

 “Stop!” Fitz gasped. “We’re too close!”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“There’s a cliff right there, moron!”

Ward slammed on the brakes. Fitz held his breath in an agony of suspense, every muscle thrumming, but the old car was built well. It stopped an inch away from the edge and Ward hit reverse, sending a spray of wet dirt and gravel behind them.

“Dammit.” Ward kept them reversing as the second car took place of the first. Their guns picked up the onslaught. A web of fine white cracks was starting to form in the windshield. Ward’s face was flushed, his breath heavy. “Fitz, get your head back down, we’re almost out of ammo.”

“What about the flamethrower?!”

“Only works close range!” Ward kept the car flying backward, the windshield between them and the bullets. Fitz began to undo his seatbelt. “What are you doing!?” Ward sent them around a curve that sent Fitz’s back crashing painfully against the car door.

“Flamethrower!” Fitz shouted back.

“I said we can’t get that close!” Ward leaned back, trying to contort himself into a position convenient for steering and watching what Fitz was doing.

“No, you don’t have enough _fuel_.” Fitz said. He scrambled across the seats, shoving Ward aside as he put his hands under the steering wheel.

“Get your head away from my crotch!”

“I’m making adjustments!” Fitz said. He reached down and began to undo wires. Ward swore and yanked his arm out from under Fitz, letting go of the gearshift. The car wobbled dangerously. Ward drove his elbow into Fitz’s back as he stabilized. Fitz stabbed a retaliatory elbow into Ward’s thigh.

“What are you _doing_ down there?” Ward couldn’t look down. He had to keep his head half outside the car to see how the Rover was gaining.

Fitz did his best to ignore him. His concentration was on the engine. He could see the thick pink pipe that led to the gas tank, light blue wires crisscrossing it and leading back into the rest of the engine. That was where he put his hands, trying to ignore how Ward’s knees kept jerking. On the whole it was simple work, just a matter of getting his hands into the right grooves and keeping a working rhythm despite the sticky liquids that kept dripping onto his fingers.

“Brake!” Fitz shouted.

“What?!” Ward demanded.

“Just do it!” The windshield was now an almost completely white plate. Ward had to put his head outside the protective layers just to see where he was going. Ward took one look at Fitz, swore heavily, and slammed his foot on the brake.

The car howled. Ward gritted his teeth, trying to keep the wheels stable on the sand. Fitz slapped down the button for the flames.

The wires he had redone did their jobs beautifully, sending a current to detach the barriers between fuel chambers. The smell of gas filled the air, and the gout of fire that roared from the front of the car was as broad as Ward’s shoulders. The force sent Fitz hurling back to his seat, panting. It engulfed the whole of the pursuing car, which hadn’t braked nearly as fast.

Ward pressed the reverse again, sending them shooting back. They were only just in time. The blast as the enormous Rover exploded sent the much smaller car spinning away, out of control on the unpaved road.

Fitz could smell petrol fumes on the air. His hands were sticky with the adhesive he’d had to drag off the wires. And they were ratcheting around the increasingly narrow road, a sheer drop on one side and rocks on the other.

“Fitz!” Ward shouted. He’d undone his seatbelt. Taking his hands totally off the wheel, he launched himself across the seat and grabbed Fitz around the waist. Fitz shouted as Ward dragged him across the seats, abandoning all control of the car as it slid closer to the edge.

Ward had one arm around Fitz’s torso, holding him close. He reached across to the gear and flicked his thumb, opening up the tip. Ward pressed down. Fitz screamed and grabbed Ward’s neck.

As the car went plummeting down, they shot up. The wind rushed at Fitz’s cheeks as he clung to Ward. Then a white sheet unfurled above them. With a final enormous jerk that almost threw Fitz off Ward’s lap, they were hovering in the air.

“Simultaneous ejection.” Ward panted. Fitz leaned against his chest, breath heaving. He could feel Ward’s sweat through his shirt. Fitz looked up. The parachute had come from either side of the chair. It hung above them, fluttering translucent white in the sky.

Fitz could do nothing. He let himself lean against Ward’s chest, shuddering, as they gently descended.

\--

The subalpine forests of the Greater Caucus Mountains were not an inviting place.

Ward carried the ejector chair on his shoulder, in an attempt to convince Whitehall they’d died in the crash. Fitz was perfectly willing to let him. He was busy trying to not trip over the hundred thousand broken branches that littered the forest, or put his feet in any more thorny bushes. He swore as yet another snagged on his suit.

Ward had apparently given up on telling him to be quiet. Now he just kept giving Fitz odd looks out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Fitz asked in exasperation, after the twelfth time Ward shot him a look that people gave unruly lab rats. “Will the evil enemy agents in the trees hear me if I swear too bloody loudly?”

“I doubt Whitehall wired the forest. The weather conditions would make it impractical.” Ward said. Fitz scowled at him. “Just trying to figure out why Whitehall cares about you so much.”

“Make it’s my scintillating personality.”

Ward snorted. “He was willing to kill me to make sure you never left the premises.”

“So?” Fitz frowned. “Hold on, if he kills you, will M16 invade?”

“No, and before you start planning to push me off a cliff, Whitehall shouldn’t have broken my cover anyway. I never let anyone get a good look at my face.” Ward said. “All he knows about me is that I’m from the British Museum, and that they’d notice if I never came back.”

“Simmons and I—you remember Simmons, the one we _left behind_ —just did nonsense work, though. Nothing you’d understand, but practically worthless all the same.” Fitz snagged his jacket on another shattered treetrunk and swore. Ward, bastard that he was, had kept his tuxedo practically immaculate.

“I know how a bomb works.” Ward grumbled. “And will you shut up about your partner?”

“No I will not!” Fitz said heatedly. “She is my _best friend_. Do you not have friends in the service?”

“We have contacts.” Ward said. “They’re more practical.”

“Oh my god something is so wrong with you.” Fitz muttered.

“For your information, I didn’t have to take _you_.” Ward hissed.

“Yes you bloody well did.” Fitz snapped. “You’re too stupid to understand any of what Bakshi had us doing.”

“Who’s Bakshi?”

“Our supervisor.” Fitz said. He glared at Ward. “Did you think Whitehall personally oversaw everything? No, he just showed up every now and then.”

“Huh.” Ward’s brow furrowed.

Fitz interrupted whatever secret spy thoughts he was having. “As soon as they know I’m gone, they’re going to go after Simmons, you understand that? They recruited us together, we’ve been together since the beginning of _everything_.”

“This mission is compromised enough.” Ward said shortly.

“What is wrong with you?! She’s a person, not a mission! A living breathing person! She’s five feet four inches tall and has brown hair and she’s smarter than I am and—”

“And you _agreed_ to leave her.” Ward cut in, his voice icy.

“I know.” Fitz said quietly. It was unbelievable, how tired he felt. They kept walking, as the ground turned more and more stony. Finally, Ward stopped. Fitz looked up. They were at the base of a slope, where the trees began to thin. The terrain was scattered with boulders left by glaciers. Two of them leaning against each other and formed a stone lean-to in the trees.

“We can use the low hanging rocks as a shelter until nightfall.” Ward said. He put the chair down with a grunt. “We should be far enough from the road that no scouts will find the chair and realize we’re alive.”

“Joy.” Fitz slumped down.

Ward leaned against the rocks. “I’ll steal a car tonight. We can be across the border in two days.”

“You might steal a feather bed while you’re at it.” Fitz adjusted himself. The rocky ground dug into his pants and his jacket.

“Is your friend actually that small?” Ward asked abruptly.

“Yes.” Fitz said shortly. The last thing he felt like doing was discussing Jemma with Grant bloody Ward. “And what the hell sort of people do you work where that’s incredibly short?”

“Fitz…” Ward sighed. “Going back into that fortress is a dumb plan.”

“Whatever.” Fitz said. He could feel Ward glaring down at him.

“I was trying to be _nice_ and explain that I have orders.” Ward snapped. He sat down on the rocks a good couple feet from Fitz, somehow making the motion angry. Fitz ignored him. Ward said something under his breath. Fitz couldn’t hear it, but it sounded uncomplimentary. They sat in chilly silence until night fell.

Ward got to his feet then. “Don’t move.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” Fitz demanded. He huddled into the rocks and glared at Ward’s perfectly shaped backside as the agent walked away. At least Ward had patches of dust on his trousers now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> switching to biweekly updates :)


	4. Chapter 4

The 007 agents walked in death’s shadow. Everyone in the service knew it. Whether they were wielding the scythe themselves or throwing off the curve for agent life expectancy, they were on a constant precipice.

Ward chose not to look at the black depths yawning beneath him. His feet may have been jammed into the narrowest of cracks, but he was used to clinging to life with his fingertips. He scarcely thought about it. The only reason to back at a corpse was to make sure it was dead. Or so he’d been taught.

With the cold night wind cutting his shoulders, Ward considered his own death.

Mostly whether M would kill him personally, or just send a firing squad. Also, that he hated castles. _Normal_ buildings had other rooftops near them to jump from, and fire escapes, and drainpipes. Ward’s foot slipped on a crumbling bit of masonry, and he swore.

He wedged his toe back into a different gap between stones, and reached up for another handhold. He was slowly, painstakingly, making his way up what he deeply hoped was the correct wall. Nobody in Q branch had given him plans for the fortress—assuming, no doubt, that he would never have to mount a haphazard rescue mission from the outside. Ward was also unsure as to whether Q actually _had_ the plans.

They definitely had grappling hooks, though. And those gloves with little suction cups on the fingers.

Ward’s cold fingers closed around what felt like a windowsill. He hauled himself up, finding a hold for his other hand. There were bars placed vertically in the stone, forming a convenient cage around the window. Ward grabbed one. It felt new.

Yet another unhistorical improvisation on the castle. Whitehall was lucky none of his legitimate guests noticed. His brief interview with an _actual_ curator from the British Museum made him think that they’d rip Whitehall limb from limb, armed guards be damned. He peered inside.

Ward had into enough modern war chambers to recognize an ancient one. A single table of dark wood, rectangular rather than round, dominated the room. The legs were carved in the shapes of great cats, rearing on their hind legs and growling. Maps were scattered across the surface, most of them old.

It was unoccupied. Ward yanked one of the bars, trying to balance and pull at the same time. Both he and the bar remained steady. Ward swore quietly and rubbed his fingers together. He was getting damn cold.

This was an all-around terrible plan. Ward braced his foot between bars and kept climbing. The battlements were only about another twenty feet up, and with any luck there would be a parapet walk. Ward dragged himself up, the noises of his hands and feet on the stones muffled. The black sheen of his tuxedo was indistinguishable from the night.

Ward’s hand closed on a rampart. He vaulted soundlessly over the edge and went into an automatic crouch in the shadows. The parapet was lighted by a series of lanterns, positioned in intervals of ten feet. They cast only enough light to keep guards from tripping over their own feet. Not enough to alert overhead aircraft or anyone driving through the mountains.

Twenty yards down, there was a yellow light. Ward paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It was a small electric light, set above a door into the castle. There was a single guard in the doorway, an AA12 Atchinsson hanging casually off one shoulder. Ward’s eyed the weapon. Last he checked, the US military didn’t sell those to private citizens.

If that went off, he was spectacularly dead. Ward carefully put his Beretta back in the shoulder holster. He didn’t have a silencer, and there was bound to be a similarly equipped guard at the other end of the parapet.

M would strangle him with her bare hands if anyone found out he’d been here.

Ward went for the guard at a run, his hip pressed to the inward wall of the parapet. The guard was looking to the outside, though clearly not very hard. Ward was behind him in a second, his foot slamming into the exact center of the man’s back.

He went toppling soundlessly over the edge. Ward pressed himself to the wall, waiting. The wall of the castle was seamlessly connected to the side of the mountain. The guard would fall past both, until his body hit the rocks at the base and with any luck tumbled all the way down the mountain.

Ward took Fitz’s passcard out of his pocket and tried the door. Whitehall hadn’t shut down Fitz’s access. Ward slipped into a well-lit stone corridor. It was entirely too well lit for Ward’s taste. There would be no sneaking up on anyone here.

He plastered a pleasant but confused smile on his face and wandered. He didn’t find a guard until he reached the elevator.

“Excuse me?” Ward asked. “I er, I was at the party and I sort of…woke up here.” He waved an abstract but deeply nonthreatening hand. The guard’s eyes followed it. It was a mistake. Ward’s other hand shot out, fingers joined together, to jab directly into their larynx. The guard convulsed, mouth opening in a wheezing cough. Ward’s gesturing hand came scything down, fingers closing around the base of the M5 Carbine. He wrenched the gun away and jumped back, giving himself enough room to kick the guard’s solar plexus. In a second the guard was splayed on the floor, gasping. Ward stamped one foot on the fingers of the closest hand, breaking the fingers which had held the M5. The guard didn’t have breath to scream, but he tried.

Ward knelt over the body, one foot on an already battered right arm, a knee at the opposite shoulder. He kept one hand on the guard’s throat, cutting off airflow with his thumb, and with the other raised the carbine.

“I’m looking for a scientist.” Ward said softly. The guard stared up at him with terrified eyes. Ward pressed his thumb a little harder into his throat. “She’s one of Whitehall’s best. He’d be keeping her locked somewhere.”

The guard tried to shake his head. Ward took his fingers off his throat. “I don’t—”

“Think.” Ward pressed his foot into his arm. “About your answer.”

“Lab quarters are on the third floor.” The guard choked out the words.

“I didn’t ask about _quarters_.” Ward pressed just a bit harder. “If this pressure keeps up, your shoulder will dislocate in thirty seconds.”

“She’s there!” The guard managed.

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yes! Bakshi’s with her, made us all work double shift…” The guard let out a wail of pain. Ward released his arm. He groaned in relief, a second before Ward bashed him over the head with the carbine. Ward got to his feet as the guard fell back, unconscious, musing on how Whitehall and Bakshi failed to inspire loyalty in their employees.

Ward stole the guard’s access pass before hiding the unconscious body in the ceiling. He used it to send the elevator quietly humming to the 3rd floor. If things went according to the plan he was rapidly making up in his head, there would be no reason for anyone to know that he, specifically, had been there.

He put his hands behind his back and watched the numbers in the elevator.

They stopped at the 4th floor instead. Ward slipped a hand over his gun as the doors slid open.

Whitehall was directly in front of him, the beautiful woman with the red streaks beside him. Ward froze.

“I know they won’t be at Pushkin long.” Whitehall was saying. “I still hate to see them go, they’re some of the most significant…” He broke off the conversation to frown at Ward. “And who are you?”

“Thomas Garrett.” Ward improvised wildly. He beamed at Whitehall. Whitehall and his lady friend simply stared. “ _Great_ party last night! My friends aren’t going to believe that chandelier. I was trying to find somewhere I could call them, actually, I can’t get service anywhere on the ground floor.”

The woman scrutinized him. Daniel Whitehall adjusted his glasses. “The party, my friend, ended last night.” His voice was very soft. It was a tone with which Ward was intimately familiar. “Victoria, darling. I think our buyer’s meeting may need to be postponed.”

“Probably.” Ward agreed. His fist flew out, hitting Whitehall square in the face. Whitehall let out a screeching curse in what sounded like German. Ward launched himself out of the elevator and grabbed the back of Whitehall’s jacket, shoving him into the elevator. In the next second he pushed the woman. He had to push her a lot harder, and she was already spinning around, curls flying around her face, when Ward reached in to run his hand over all the buttons.

She was facing him when the doors shut. Her eyes glittered.

Ward waited a minute, just long enough for them to get between floors, then pressed the Beretta to the elevator controls and fired a single shot. He left the panel smoking in his wake and ran, trying to find a staircase.

In their anxiousness to protect against the Huns, whoever designed the damn castle didn’t consider the need for fire stairs. Whitehall must have replaced the sole original staircase with the elevator shaft. Ward swore as he looked around for any alternate exit.

This must have been Whitehall’s floor. There were tapestries hung on the walls, depicting great storms and stars breaking over tiny villages. Ward yanked one aside to check for a secret passage and only succeeded in ripping the old linen. If M didn’t kill him, the British Museum would.

Ward shook the bits of fiber off his hand. _Think_. It was impossible to hear what was going on in the rest of the castle. No way to tell if Whitehall was still in the elevator. Ward picked a door at random and used the guard’s pass to get inside. He stopped short inside, gun snapping up.

It was just another room of collector’s pieces. Armor, this time. Ward took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart rate. They ringed the room, silent and grim. Ward restrained temptation to flick his finger at any of their visors as he walked past them.

More importantly, there was a window. Ward ran to it and looked down. He was in what must have been a keep. This fortress clung to the edge of the mountain like a tumor, and turrets rose around the keep like parasitic growths. There was no central courtyard. Instead there were endless roofs, flat or steeply sloping.

Ward bumped his knuckles against the glass. It was too thick to smash with a fist. Ward raised his gun. The window was stained glass, making it almost impossible to see where he’d be jumping. He felt movement behind him and hit the floor on instinct.

A gauntleted fist smashed the window where he’d been leaning. Ward froze for a split second, staring up at the suit of armor. It was mostly chain mail, jingling as it moved. The helmet was curved and came to a point at the top of the head. Ward could easily see that there was nothing behind the eye slits.

He raised his gun anyway and fired through the head. That didn’t stop a mailed foot from crashing down an inch from his shin. Ward rolled away, realizing with horror that as he moved, he was going further into the room. And the others were all stirring.

Remote access technology, remote access technology, M sent them all a memo about it once, never mentioned anything like _this_. Ward jumped to his feet and dodged another blow. Then another, wearing a dingy yellow surcoat, was behind him. Its fist hit him in the shoulder, sending him staggering forward, into the embrace of the first. Ward dropped to his knees and tried to grab the legs, to yank them out from under his opponent. They were immovable. He got a kick to the shoulder that sent him rolling backward, gasping in pain.

He was surrounded absolutely. Ward looked around frantically. Did he have the space to rush for the door? His gaze caught the blinking red light in the corner, and another in a blue surcoat reaching for him. Ward spun, hating himself as he felt blue’s gauntlet hit him, missing his kidneys by dumb luck. He could only hope the same luck had blurred his face for the camera.

The plan here, he saw as yellow’s gauntlet came toward him, was to beat him to death. Brutal and efficient and none of the bloody archeological artifacts had pressure points. Ward knew he shouldn’t have come back here. He flung himself to the side, and yellow’s gauntlet went across his chest, the breeze sending his tie fluttering.

Ward trapped the gauntlet between his chest and his forearm and wrenched. One foot went up to kick against the armor where the hip should have been. The armor barely moved. Ward went crashing back instead, his shoulders impacting with the last fragments of window. He went plummeting down, the gauntlet in one hand.

The roof was only ten feet below him. It sloped steeply and Ward’s shoes skidded on the wood, trying to stop another fall. He caught himself at the edge and twisted around, hands balanced on the roof, looking up. The armor was standing in the window. If Ward hadn’t been smart, he’d have thought it was looking down at him.

But they’d been too clumsy for that. These were remote controlled, but the wiring was all on the inside of the armor, with no outside visuals. Whitehall wasn’t looking through their eyes. He’d been watching through the security cameras. There weren’t any cameras out here. Ward forced his aching body to stand straight and straightened his suit.

The third floor of the keep had to be somewhere around here. Still holding the gauntlet, Ward hopped to the next lowest roof. This one was mostly flat, only sloping as much was necessary to drain the water off the roof. He looked around for a window.

Oh, there was one. And there was a girl tied to a chair, staring at him with her eyes bugged out.

Well. That was probably Simmons then.

Ward strode up to the window and smashed it with the gauntlet. She flinched back from the falling glass. Ward slid into the room, still holding his weapons. She began to babble as soon as he was inside.

“Are you aware that you’re holding the immensely valuable glove of a 6th century Turk? Are you stealing it from Whitehall? I hope you’re aware that if you don’t pack it up very soon the climate will start to damage it, and I tell you this out of absolute gratitude that you seem to be here to help me out, and oh _my_ you’re tall.” She craned her neck to look at him as Ward hurried to her chair. He tossed the gauntlet aside to crouch next to her and start to undo the ropes holding her. “Do you know where Fitz is?”

“He’s in the mountains.” Ward yanked one of the knots apart. It was amateur work. “Jemma Simmons?”

“Yes!” She said, looking relieved. “Oh, thank god he’s okay.” She scrambled to her feet when Ward pulled the final ropes away. “Ah, are you stealing that priceless artifact?”

“No.” Ward said. He went to the window and looked out. If they went that way…

“Then who, exactly, are you? If you don’t mind me asking?”

To hell with it. “Ward. Grant Ward. Agent 007 in her majesty’s secret service.”

“Oh.” Simmons’ lips parted. “Well, that’s much more reassuring.”

The door clicked. Ward’s Beretta shot up, and he fired another shot at the control panel of the door. Simmons jumped at the noise, and cast an anxious look at the smoking controls. “How are we meant to leave?”

“On the roof. Come on.” Ward helped her out the window. “Mind the glass.”

She scrambled out onto the roof, arms waving. Ward braced his hands on the edges of the window and tried to follow her. Something latched around his ankle, hard enough to make him gasp in pain. It unbalanced him and he went falling out the window instead, landing on his palm and rolling to kick wildly.

It was the gauntlet. The fingers were all latched around his leg, and it was shaking, trying to drag him back inside. Ward frantically kicked. His shoes rattled on the roof in tandem with the sound of gunfire against the door. The gauntlet’s fingers tightened remorselessly.

“Go, go!” He waved his hand wildly at Simmons. She ran towards him instead, grabbing onto his shoulders and ineffectually trying to pull him back. “Go!”

“Go where?!” Simmons demanded. She moved around him instead then, kneeling beside the gauntlet. “Stay still!”

Ward grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down as the door exploded inward. Fragments of wood slashed across his jacket.

“Get back!” Ward shoved her aside. He drew his Beretta and fired twice at the gauntlet. The bullets went clean through the old metal and a volley of sparks shot up around his ankle, making him hiss. Ward scrambled to his feet, gun up, and fired through the haze of woodchips. Someone let out a yell of pain. “Run!”

They hurdled across the roof, Ward still half looking behind them for pursuers. His only warning that the roof had run out was Simmons’ shriek. Ward slid to a stop beside her and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back as she flailed on the edge. He looked down. The drop was over a hundred feet down the mountain. But the edge of the roof protruded out over a covered walkway.

“Hold this.” Ward ordered, shoving the Beretta in her hand. He jumped down, holding to the edge of the roof with his fingers. It was easy to swing onto the promenade. “Now jump!”

“Oooh…” He heard her inarticulate noises of worry as her feet came into view, then her shins. She was inching off the roof bit by bit. There was the sound of shot, and a chunk of rock next to her now evident thigh was shot off the roof. Ward groaned in impatience and leaned out to grab her legs. He heard Simmons squawk indignantly as he manhandled her down and snatched the gun from her hand. With her other, she was holding the gauntlet.

“When I say _jump_ —” Ward began.

“I know phobias are typically without rationale and perhaps save the lecture for when they aren’t coming?” Simmons said breathlessly. Ward grabbed her arm and ran for the nearest door.

“How do we get to the parking lots from here?”

“I don’t know!” Simmons said. “I don’t work in this tower, it’s all for the guards!”

Ward opened the door with a card he’d stolen off a guard and pressed Simmons flat against the wall with one arm as he peered through. There was no one there. He led the way into the corridor. These ones were absolutely bare stone. Ward paced forward, gun raised.

“I think these are security quarters.” Simmons said softly behind him.

“No wonder there’s no company loyalty.” Ward muttered. At least in MI6 they hung paintings. He broke into a run, finger still on the trigger. Simmons hurried along behind. The elevator in this tower wasn’t far. Ward slid the pass card in and selected the ground floor.

The elevator began to descend, torturously slowly.

“So.” Simmons said. Ward eyed her. “Ah. Never mind. We can stand here in silence.”

Ward grunted.

“Is Fitz really alright?”

“He’s fine.” Ward shifted his weight and wished that elevators were faster. Simmons pressed a hand to her mouth. “What?”

“Oh my god.” Simmons took a deep breath. “I. Sorry. Rooftop chase is catching up to me.”

“Um.” Ward’s brain scrambled for something comforting to say. The elevator doors swished open. There were two armed guards on the other side. Ward stepped back into the elevator and rapidly pushed the button to close the doors.

“Oh, _my_.” Simmons said in the elevator silence.

“Dammit.” Ward said. “Stay behind the doors.” He pressed the open door button and dove out firing. Simmons put her hands over her ears and gasped at the sound in the confined space. Ward landed on his shoulder, the spray of bullets going well above him. He sent his shots upward, aim lethal. He was already on his knees and snatching the carbine from the closest body while the other guard was refocusing. It roared and Ward tossed it aside, on his feet and shouting for Simmons. “Come on!”

“Coming!” She jumped over a body and was behind him as Ward ran. “Where are we going?”

Ward turned a corner too fast and bodyslammed another guard mostly by accident. It meant they were in close contact enough for Ward to wrap a hand around their throat and slam their forehead into the wall without massively breaking stride.

“You didn’t answer my question!” Simmons said, scrambling after him. Ward opened another door and breathed a sigh of relief. They were in an open hall, the floor an orange and green mosaic, the entrance an enormous arch open to the elements.

“Out!” Ward called over his shoulder. Across the hall were two bronze posts, embedded in the mosaic. A velvet rope linked them, and parked against the rope was a line of five highly modified Russian off-road motorcycles. Ward grinned.

“Oh I always wanted to learn how to ride a motorbike!” Simmons said, as they bolted across the mosaic. It depicted a great storm, breaking against the mountains. Ward threw his leg over the nearest and checked the ignition. Key was still in, the idiots.

“Put this on.” Ward picked up the helmet from where it hung off the handlebars. He revved the throttle. “And hang on.”

“I know _that_.” Simmons said, as she fastened the strap under her chin. The helmet was big enough to engulf most of her head. Ward kicked away the stand. “Wait!” Ward twisted his head to look at her. She kick out with one leg, hard, at the line of motorcycles beside them.

Ward grinned as they went crashing down. He felt Simmons tighten her arms around his waist, and sent the bike flying out. He could hear shouting and swearing behind them. Good, he hoped the girl had damaged one of them. Even if not, she’d given him a lead.

He heard two more engines roar to life. At least two were unscathed then. He twisted his head and glanced behind him and no, the guards weren’t riding double. If they wanted to fire at him they’d have to take one hand off the controls to do it.

The road they were on was horrifically steep but wide, unobstructed and with no hard turns. Ward remedied the problem by going off road, the bike’s overlarge tires bouncing as he sent them careening over the rocks. Ward leaned over the handlebars and swerved to avoid a rock as the two behind him were forced to turn onto the dangerous terrain. He had them at full throttle, still going downhill and dodging boulders and scrubby pines.

There was a thundering noise from behind them. Ward didn’t dare brake to see what had happened. He felt heat on his back for a second and they were lifting, soaring over a gorge and hitting the rocks on the other side hard enough to shake Ward’s teeth in his skull. He hit the brakes then, skidding around to see who was still following them.

He turned in time to watch the second motorbike plunge into the gorge. Ward stayed a beat to watch the smoke begin rising, then kept riding.

-

Fitz hitched his knees up to his chest and looked up at the sky. There were tendrils of red light starting to show above the mountains. Ward should have been back.

_God_ , he hoped Ward hadn’t decided to leave him behind. If he had Fitz was going to follow him all the way to bloody England just to yell in his stupid smug face. Of course, Fitz would either starve to death or die of exposure or get shot before then, but that might just make it easier. Ghosts didn’t even have to pay airfare. He pressed his back against the cold rock and worried about Simmons.

The roar of a motorbike interrupted his gloom. Fitz scrambled back against the rock as it tore past him and came to a stop with a rocking motion.

“Fitz!” Simmons climbed off the back, tossing her helmet down and running to him. Fitz pushed himself to his feet at about the same time she half tackled him, so they ended up in a confusing pile next to the rock.

“Simmons!” Fitz hugged her fiercely. “What…”

“Ward came and got me!” Simmons began to pat him down. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine, and you?” Fitz worriedly looked her over. “Why do you have a gauntlet?”

“Oh!” Simmons held it up. Fitz could see wiring lining the interior. “It almost killed Agent Ward!”

“You almost got killed by a glorified mitten?” Fitz asked, looking past Simmons. Ward was still sitting on the bike, scowling.

“It caught me by surprise.” He muttered. Simmons giggled. Fitz snickered.

“I thought it might be a clue.” Simmons added. Ward and Fitz blinked at her. “It seems so unusual, it would have to be worth taking back to MI6.”

“You’re _brilliant_.” Fitz said distractedly. He looked from her to Ward. “Wait, you went and got her?”

“It was a calculated risk.” Ward said shortly. “Both of you, get up. You’re underdeveloped enough to both fit on the back of the bike. We have to get over the border quickly.”

“Wait.” Fitz said. He lowered his voice. “Jemma, you’re sure you’re okay?”

“They didn’t have time to do anything ghastly.” Simmons said equally quietly. “Just tied me up, I got the impression that Whitehall was busy. The worst part was being worried about you, honestly.”

“Oh, thank god.” Fitz said intensely.

“Will you two just get on the damn bike?” Ward interrupted. He pointed at the seat behind him.

“Right.” Simmons said quietly. “Fitz, here, you take the helmet.”

“No, you should take it.” Fitz tried to pass it back at her.

“No, Fitz, it really should be you, you’ve had more concussions, your veins are more susceptible to bruising—”

“No, it has to be you, if we capsize we’ll need the doctor not to have head trauma—”

“I concede that but I really think that of the two of us you’re more likely to lose your grip—”

“True but as my falling usually means that you trip as well—”

Ward groaned and dropped his forehead to the handlebars. Fitz and Simmons glanced at him slightly guiltily.

“Shall we just…?” Simmons asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Fitz agreed. “Rock, paper, scissors…”

Simmons chuckled. “Oh, Fitz.” She put the helmet on his head. “So predictable.”

“I’m not predictable.” Fitz grumbled. He stomped over to the bike. “How long until we’re out of South Ossetia?”

“Two hours.” Ward said. He waited as Simmons climbed onto the bike, and Fitz settled in after her. They were just small enough to fit. “Then we’re in Russia.”

“What?!”

“Can’t go through Georgia. That’s where they expect us to go.” Ward said casually. “Ready?”

“Ready!” Simmons chirped.

“Not ready in the least.” Fitz said darkly.

Ward pressed the throttle. They roared away over the mountain.


	5. Chapter 5

Ward parked the bike at the top of the ridge. Below them, a narrow road led between two rocky slopes, blocked off by a red and white gate. Barbed wire fencing at least twice Fitz’s height stretched over the mountains on either side.

“Well that’s fantastic.” Fitz said, his voice muffled by the helmet. He took it off, scowling around Simmons’s shoulder. “Have any other bright ideas?”

Ward squinted down at the hut beside the gate. Fitz counted at least ten men, all in very large combat vests holding very large guns. “I didn’t think there would be that many people on border patrol.”

“Well it’s not a _problem_.” Simmons said brightly. “Agent Ward can fight his way through!”

Ward turned his head to look at her incredulously. Fitz stared at the back of her head with corresponding emotion, reasonably sure that she could sense it.

“That’s what he did before!” Simmons said defensively.

“You’d think they’d be grateful.” Fitz said, ignoring Ward completely. “Here we are, trying to get rid of a madman practically in their backyard, and they’re looming threatening with guns. Should be offering us a cuppa.”

“Right?” Ward scowled down at the guards. Then he transferred the scowl to Fitz. “We?”

“I think we’ve got substantially more to offer than you!”

“You’d _better_.” Ward said under his breath. “And I can’t go in and shoot them all.”

“Oh.” Simmons said. “Because they’re our allies and that would be rude?”

“Because I’m out of bullets.”

Fitz leaned closer. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said, I’m _out of bullets._ ” Ward emphasized. Fitz began to snicker. “It happens! I didn’t think I’d run into this much trouble.” Ward stared down the slope at the guards. “Can either of you speak Portugese?”

“Ah, no.” Simmons said.

“Great.” Ward looked at the sky. “How comfortable are you with nudity?”

“In er, what context?” Fitz inquired. Ward glanced down at the guards. “Oh, no. Neither I nor Simmons is going to seduce an entire platoon of Russians! Right Simmons?”

“Right.” Simmons said, nodding vigorously.

“I was just suggesting that you could _distract_ them.”

“Why don’t you strip and tease the guards then!”

“I think they might find the scars suspicious.”

“I have scars!” Fitz told him. “My aunt Myrtle’s cat was a monster, you have no idea. Anyway, if you want a distraction, why don’t you just rig up a landslide? You’ve got a can of petrol and a slope covered in rocks.”

“Have you noticed that I have a _small_ can of petrol and the rocks are _large_?” Ward asked. “That plan might prove problematic.”

“Well, no.” Simmons said. “Not with physics.

“Lots of those rocks are at _very_ precarious angles.” Fitz said. “A bit of incendiary force and we could sent one flying down the mountain.”

“Wouldn’t take five minutes.” Simmons added.

 “Well…go do that then.” Ward said.

“Come on,” Simmons said, slipping off the bike. “I know just the rock you’re thinking of. It should make _quite_ a stir.”

“Can’t believe we’re doing his job for him.” Fitz said, following her. Ward stayed on the bike, one eye on the guards and the other on them. He cut a horrifically appealing profile. “This is ridiculous.”

“You just think he’s _handsome_.” Simmons said. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face. They crouched down at the rock together, her smiling, Fitz scowling.

“I bet he thinks he’s handsome too.”

“Oh, lighten up. You always wanted to go to Russia.” Simmons rubbed her fingers in the dust where the bomb should be placed. Fitz began to pull the petrol can open. When he had the tab lifted, he tugged on the hem of his shirt until a thread came out.

Fitz went through the equations in his head as he unraveled the thread, backing away from the rock as he went. Simmons followed, a few loose wires wrapped around her fingers. Fitz didn’t bother checking her equations. As soon as they were a sufficient distance away, Fitz ripped the thread. Simmons bent over and sparked the wires. They watched as the spark traveled.

A cloud of fire and dust rose around the edge of the rock. It wobbled as cracks beginning at the base widened. The rock collapsed down the mountain in half a dozen enormous pieces. Fitz chuckled at the crash each time it bounced off the slope.

There were shouts from the guards. Five of them were running to the source, guns out. Two had stayed. Fitz sighed. “You would think that a half ton of rocks would be enough to send them all off wouldn’t you?”

“Oh look, there’s agent Ward.” Simmons said, pointing down. Ward was bent low and running to the gate. “And _look_ there’s the two guards. They…they seem to be looking directly at us.”

“Yes, they do.” Fitz said. “Ah.”

“Perhaps staying and watching isn’t quite the best policy for detonations.” Simmons said.

“Seem so.” Fitz replied. “Oh my god they’re pointing guns at us Simmons _down_!” He grabbed her and dropped to the ground with a shriek. He didn’t think guns _reached_ that far but the rocks around them were exploding into fragments, and Simmons was half on top of him, her face pressed into his neck and her hands protecting his eyes.

There was another burst of fire. Fitz cracked open his eyes. He could see below them, through the cracks in Simmons’s fingers, a figure in a tuxedo kicking a gun out of someone’s hands and sending an elbow crashing into their temple. Then he saw a hand on another guard’s head, smashing their forehead into the rail, and Ward was running to them up the slope.

“Are you hurt?” Ward demanded. His eyes raked over them, answering his own question. “Are you _insane_? What were you thinking, standing around?” He reached down and grabbed one of them with each arm, lifting them up off the ground. “Come on, and stay behind me!”

Ward half threw both of them onto the bike. He did wait until Fitz’s arms were secure around his waist, and Simmons’s around Fitz’s, before sending the bike flying around the gate and into Russia.

\--

They ran out of gas on the outskirts of a town with a population smaller than MI6’s London office. Ward drew the sputtering bike around to the back of a house on the outskirts and leaned it against a tin shed. When he turned the key, the bike let out a noise that could only have been relief before dying.

“What now?” Fitz asked.

“I need a phone. Come on.” Ward began walking. Simmons and Fitz fell in behind him. The town was small enough for them to find the center in less than ten minutes. Ward sighed heavily at the phone box they found hanging off a telephone pole in the middle of the square.

“What now?” Fitz asked. He looked fully prepared for Ward to say that the phone was an explosive device triggered by a UK accent.

“The service has a telephone station in every major city that’s programmed to link to our switchboard exclusively and bypass major networks.” Ward said, thinking about Paris. They had a beautiful phone booth in Paris.

“Ohh, so this is a snob thing. Got it.” Fitz nodded. “Do you think any of these stores could manage a cuppa?”

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Simmons said. She looked around. The buildings around them were either concrete or squat wood, and the passerby were giving them all a wide berth. Ward thought the passerby had damn good instincts.

“Don’t wander off.” He ordered them both, before picking up the phone and spinning the dial. First the number for the British Embassy in Moscow, then the extension that would send the call to a small room in the basement of the Embassy where an operator was sitting, waiting to transfer calls to a secure line between Moscow and London.

The phone rang once, then a woman answered. “Is this about our fish futures?”

“No, pork bellies.” Ward replied.

“Oh my god, I could go for a bit of bacon right now.” Fitz said with a sigh.

Simmons made noises of agreement. “Oh, or some jam and toast?”

Ward flapped his hand at them, trying to indicate that they should shut the hell up. The operator was checking his response in the code book, going through the codes for informants, regional contracts, and agents, and not the prank callers who somehow ended up on the line now and then. Ward had heard some very interesting stories about what happened to those juveniles. “Rank and location?”

“007. I have no idea.” Ward heard a startled noise on the other end. M must not have told their Russian Branch that a double-o would be in the vicinity. He couldn’t blame her, since he wasn’t supposed to be in the vicinity anyway.

“Is your line secure?”

“No, but I’m reasonably sure no one is monitoring the call.” Ward said, flicking the telephone pole with one finger. A splinter of rotten wood caught in his finger. He scowled and wiped his hand on his ruined tux. “I need to report to London.”

“Transferring you in 3…2…” The phone beeped. Ward waited, trying to compose a report in his head that wouldn’t result in a firing squad. A new voice came to him over the scratchy line. “Hello?”

“008?” Ward asked, blinking.

“007?” What was _Coulson_ doing answering phones? Hanging around the secretaries and answering their phones for the hell of it, Ward answered in his head. And being able to recognize Ward’s voice despite the scratchy connection. “What are you doing calling from Moscow?” He sounded only mildly surprised.

“Things didn’t go according to plan.” Ward said. He glanced at Fitz and Simmons. They were chattering about what made the perfect Russian tea. “M needs to know that I have two witnesses with me who say Whitehall is definitively psychopathic.”

“I’ll send her a note.”

“I need a connection to her office.” Ward said quickly. “There’s more.”

“I’ll send you through.” Ward heard the scratch of Coulson pressing the mouthpiece to his shoulder. “Which of these buttons connects to M?” There was a beep. Ward breathed out in quiet relief.

Then the phone beeped again. “How’s Lola, by the way?”

“Very fast.” Ward didn’t dare actually lie to 008, even over the phone.

Coulson chuckled. “I know.”

Ward shifted anxiously until the phone beeped and a more pleasant voice answered. “M.”

“Hi Skye.” Ward said. Fitz glanced up at him.

“007.” Skye replied. He could picture her kicking her feet onto the desk. “Do you have good news for the Kingdom of Great Britain?”

“None at all.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised. M is in a meeting, give it to me.” Ward heard fingers on a keyboard.

“Whitehall is confirmed as dangerous. He’s been kidnapping scientists for unknown purposes, and his castle has a small militia armed beyond reason.” Ward listened to Skye typing. “I brought two of the scientists with me while I was exiting. There was an armed conflict.”

“Kill count?”

Ward grimaced. “I’ll let you know when it’s over.”

“M will want to know.”

“Not enough bodies to cause an issue. I’ll tally in my official report.” Ward leaned against the side of the box. “Tell her that my cover fragmented but I’m still anonymous.”

“Did Whitehall see your face?”

“Yes.” Ward muttered. Skye snorted. “It was unavoidable. But I need orders on where to go next.”

“Let me ask her.”

“You said she was out.”

“I lied.” Skye put the phone down. Ward waited, twitching. Simmons and Fitz kept looking at him and trying to act like they weren’t. “M isn’t recalling you to London. Whitehall’s awareness of the investigation makes it too dangerous to send in another agent. Keep tracking him until you know what he wants, then report back for either a termination order or to summon another agent for negotiations.”

_Clean up your mess_. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hey, it’s me you’re talking to. Not M.” Skye laughed. “Is there anything you need?”

Ward glanced at Fitz and Simmons. They rapidly looked away from him to resume talk about Caravan and Kusmi. “All my contacts are on the other side of the border. I need passports and transport.”

“I’ll send you to Q. I think Mack knows a guy.” The phone beeped. Ward waited for a few minutes as the line hummed, and people in suits in an office a continent away made decisions.

“007?”

“Agent Mackenzie.” Ward said. “I’m in North Ossetia, with civilians and without contacts.”

“Well.” Mack said. “Give me a second with that.” Ward waited. “Didn’t you have to go over a whole range of mountains to get there?”

“It was an accident.” Ward said.

“Heh. I know exactly the man you should talk to. Get yourself to Vladikavkaz, find the cowboy bar.”

“What’s the address?”

“There’s only one cowboy bar in Vladikavkaz.” Mack said. “Your man is short, probably has a little too much stubble, drinking something cheap. His name’s Lance Hunter, and you tell him that I’m calling in my favors.”

“Thanks.” Ward said.

“How’s Lola?”

Ward hung up. “You two, stay put. I’m going to get us a car.”

“Why, where are we going?” Simmons asked.

“Vladikavkaz.”

\--

Fitz chose to ignore the order to stay put, and followed Ward back into the alley where he’d parked the car. He was crouched next to the bike they’d stolen, squinting at the tires. “What are you doing?”

“Can’t sell the bike if I don’t know the specs.” Ward replied. He straightened, eying Fitz. “What do you want?”

“Just watching.” Fitz crossed his arms uncomfortably. Ward frowned at him, then went back to checking the bike. “Are you trying to see if Whitehall marked it?”

“I’m just trying to sell the damn bike.” Ward said. Fitz had the distinct impression that Ward wanted him to go away.  

Tough. “So, you’re not going to come over and apologize then?”

That made Ward look at him properly. “Apologize for _what_?”

“Apologize for leaving me alone in a bathroom with my pants around my ankles!” Fitz replied.

Ward stared at him. “You want me to apologize for getting you off?”

“I want you to apologize for doing it under false pretenses.” Fitz crossed his arms. “And I’ll have you know you _didn’t_. Left too soon.”

“I was _trying_ to get information.” Ward snapped. “It’s part of my job.”

“Practically humiliating people is part of your job?” Fitz asked angrily. “False promises are part of your job?”

“All _right_.” Ward said. “I’m sorry for seducing you. It went further than I meant it to.”

“Oh no, let’s get something straight, you did not _seduce_ me.” Fitz said. “Frankly I think if any seducing was done it was on my part, thank you very much.”

Ward rolled his eyes. “Oh really.”

Fitz stepped forward. “It went farther than I meant it to?”

Ward rose, looking down at Fitz. “I was completely under control.”

“Didn’t feel that way from where I was touching.” Fitz said softly. Ward’s eyes flickered over his body. Fitz felt a flush of warmth through his limbs that was at odds with the cold Russian air. “Anyway. I’m sorry too.”

“What are you sorry for?” Ward stepped back, opening a wider gulf of space between them.

“For saying that something was wrong with you and thinking you were a soulless bastard.” Fitz said.

Ward let out an amused noise. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the first person to say so.”

“I mean it. You went back for Simmons even though it wasn’t your mission.” Fitz watched the tension lines in Ward’s back. He’d torn the tuxedo since Fitz had last seen that angle, and there were scratch marks on his shoulders. “Was your boss angry?”

“No idea.” Ward said. He straightened again, brushing off his knees. “If M wants to yell at you she does it in person.”

“I can’t imagine having the head of the secret service yelling at me. Sounds dreadful.” Fitz said sympathetically.

“I’ve been through worse.” Ward shrugged. There were worse punishments than verbal rebukes. “She’s assigned me to keep chasing after Whitehall. If I deal with him, everything will be fine when I get back.”

“Does deal with him mean kill him?” Fitz asked.

“Not yet.” Ward grimaced. “Just intelligence work. Don’t worry, you’re not going to get caught in any more firefights.”

“I wasn’t…” Fitz tried to say, but Ward was walking past him, head bent. Fitz sighed at his back as he walked away.

Ward turned. “Don’t wander off while I’m gone.” Then he was gone.

Fitz scowled at his back and headed back to Simmons. She was perched on a bench, ankles crossed beneath it, examining the glasses. Fitz sat next to her. She put a hand on his shoulder and rubbed gently. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” Simmons said. “So…there’s not going to be an armored car that picks us up?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so, after the mess at the border. I gather we’re not supposed to even be here?”

“Yeah.” Fitz settled closer, letting Simmons lean on his side. “I don’t understand espionage.”

“Me neither.” Simmons said in consolation. “Me neither, Fitz.” She turned the glasses over in her hands. Fitz could see the mitten on her lap. “I had to jump off a roof.”

“You kept your hands on a glove after jumping off a roof?”

“It really _did_ almost kill Agent Ward.” Simmons shivered. “You know, I was looking over these images you said were useless?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re not laundry.” Fitz raised his head to look at her. “That’s leather and fur. I think they’re some kind of old military uniform.” Simmons rubbed a finger absently across the lens. “Whitehall must have thought they were too valuable to put in the basement storage.”

“Or he was going to modify them before sending them away.” Fitz said grimly.

“He’ll have a harder time of that without us there.” Simmons picked up the hand and passed it to him. “I was looking at this as well, and that’s _your_ technology controlling it.” Fitz blinked down. “Remember that idea you had, about the remote control flying robots?”

“I cannot believe…” Fitz said, turning it over in his hands to look at the interior wiring. There was a bullet hole going through it which made the examination a bit more difficult, but Simmons was right. “I never even reported on that, it was from when we were in University. He _stole_ my design!”

“God, I’m glad we’re out of there.” Simmons said tiredly. She rested her head on Fitz’s shoulder. “You have no idea how afraid I was when you disappeared.”

“Probably about how afraid I was when _you_ were left there alone.” Fitz replied.

“Hey, you two. Time to go.”

Fitz jumped violently at the sound of Ward’s voice. “God, do you ever even make noise?” He turned around on the bench to glare.

Ward had bought himself a new suit. This one was grey and cut in the Russian style, just loose enough that the bulge under his arm was discreet. Ward noticed Fitz looking, and his mouth twitched. “Can’t keep the gun in your pants when you’re driving.” He jingled a set of keys.

“Great.” Fitz said, pushing himself to his feet. Simmons got up beside him. “Where’s the car?”

“Around the corner.” Ward began to walk. Fitz and Simmons followed him. Fitz winced when he saw the car. “Look, it has a full tank of gas.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Fitz said.

“It really looks very…serviceable.” Simmons added.

Ward opened the door to the backseat. It only crunched a little bit. “Both of you, in the back seat.”

“Unfair!” Fitz protested. “Why don’t you let one us drive?”

Ward rolled his eyes. “Do either of you speak Russian? Read Russian?”

“Of course _you_ do.” Fitz muttered, climbing into the car. Simmons followed him, making concerned noises every time her hand touched a stain. “Do you speak every bloody language there is?”

“Only six of them.” Ward replied. Simmons snorted into her hand. “We can be there in three hours. Try to be quiet.”

“Actually, Fitz and I were talking, and we think we might have found something you should know about.” Simmons said. “Don’t forget to put on your seatbelt.”

“…start talking.” Ward started the ignition.

\--

Vladikavkaz was a mix of faded square buildings, impressive feats of ancient architecture, and surprisingly wide thoroughfares. As Mack had promised, there was only one cowboy bar. It was at a part of the city with fewer spindly trees and more neon lighting.

It was predictably deserted. A ragged coyote skin was hung on one wall, and a picture of a bull decorated the back of the bar. The tables were mostly scuffed, like they’d been overturned recently, and Ward couldn’t say he found the little horseheads on the sides of the glasses charming.

“Oh, this is interesting.” Simmons muttered as she and Fitz entered behind him. Ward grimaced. He’d _told_ them both not to talk.

The bartender was a thickset man with a black mustache, who looked somewhat alarmed to see three new customers.

“Do you think they have anything decent on tap?” Fitz asked.

“Quiet.” Ward said through his teeth. There was a short, scruffy man sitting at the bar, drinking alone. His back was turned so that he could see anyone who walked through the door. Ward stepped up to the bartender, slipping onto the stool next to the loner. He ordered a beer in Russian.

He listened as Fitz and Simmons crowded to the other side of the bar, pestering the bartender with questions. They were a surprisingly effective distraction. Ward popped the top off his beer. Lance Hunter eyed him. “You want something, mate?”

“You owe me a favor by proxy.” Ward said. He’d been expecting an American, not a fellow countryman.

“Doubt that.” Hunter brought his bottle to his lips. Ward guessed he was at least a little bit drunk. And it was barely past noon.

“Alphonso Mackenzie says otherwise.”

Hunter slowly put down the bottle. “You a friend of Mack’s?”

“We work together. My name is Ward. Grant Ward.”

“Oh, you’re with the bloody secret service then.” Hunter said, a bit too loudly for Ward’s taste. “Fuck off then.”

“I don’t think so.” Ward said, lowering his voice. “Listen. Mack said you were the only one who knew this area, and he said that you would help for old time’s sake.”

“Did he tell you that I happen to like having most of Europe between me and his service?”

“No, but he said your freelancing gave you the freedom to pursue angles we can’t.” Ward said. “What do you know about Daniel Whitehall?”

Lance coughed on his beer. “The American?”

“That’s the one.”

“Absolutely nothing. Piss off.” Hunter waited for Ward to leave. Ward smiled at him instead. “You can tell Mack and every hellbeast affiliated with him that—”

“Ward?” Fitz piped up at his elbow. Hunter and Ward both turned. “We need money.”

“For alcohol.” Simmons added. She blinked at Hunter. “My, does everyone in this community have that many muscles?”

Hunter tipped his hat to her. “Hers is on me.”

“Rude.” Fitz muttered.

“You two don’t look much like agents.” Hunter said, leaning around Ward to survey them with interest.

“Oh, no, we’re just sort of along.” Simmons said. “007 rescued us from a mad scientist and now nobody will come get us until he finishes his mission, so really anything you’re able to do that speeds us along would be lovely.”

“You didn’t say you were a double-o.” Hunter commented. He glanced over Ward. “Good job hiding the shoulder holster.”

“You should pay for Fitz too.” Ward said. “The service didn’t give me enough rubles.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Wasn’t technically supposed to be here.” Ward said, as if he didn’t get a gloomy feeling in his stomach at the failure.

“The service cocked things up?” Hunter sounded delighted. Ward glared.

“Well he saved both of our lives.” Fitz said, also glaring. “Without being ordered.”

“I was just making a comment.” Hunter raised his hands. “No need to get aggressive, we’re all friends of friends here.” He drained his glass. “You’ve convinced me, I’ll help.”

“I need information about Whitehall’s assets.” Ward began. “Passports for all three of us, and we need to get to Moscow as quickly as possible.

“Wait, sorry.” Hunter held up a hand, closing his eyes. “You’re trying to get further _into_ Russia, not get over the safest border?”

“I want to visit the Pushkin museum.”

“You sure this is the time for a lesson in art history?”

“Whitehall just shipped a collection there.” Ward said. “He wouldn’t let any of his valuables go without a good reason.”

“Your funeral.” Hunter said. “You drive here?” Ward nodded. “Ditch the car. I’ll find another one by morning.” He reached into his pocket and took out a room key. “Here. This is for my room at the Planeta Lux, don’t abuse the hot water. I’ll get passports.”

“When the next plane out of Beslan?”

“Oh, we’re not flying.” Hunter said. “I can’t afford that many bloody plane tickets. It’s only two days by car to Moscow.”

“Oh, lovely.” Simmons said under her breath. Ward deeply empathized.

“I can find you fake passports by morning, just let me take your photos.” Hunter patted his pockets down until he found a camera. Ward squinted at the flash even as he grudgingly appreciated that Hunter had used a disposable. Devices that connected to the internet were to be avoided, always.

“Good?” Ward asked.

“You all look terrible.” Hunter said. “I’ll meet you at the Planeta Lux in the morning when I check out. Give the receptionist a nice shock when we all come of the elevator together.”

“Excellent. Let’s go.” Ward beckoned Fitz and Simmons.

“Hold on, what about my beer?” Fitz protested.

“ _Fitz_ , I’m _tired_.” Simmons led him out. Ward opened the back door to the car for them as she hustled him into the seat. “Well, he was nice.”

“I’m dropping you off outside.” Ward said, backing the car out of his space. “I have to pick up ammo.

“Hold on, how do you plan to pay for that?” Fitz asked.

“Everyone in the service has a black card.” Ward said.

“I thought you had no money!”

“No rubles. Most places in Russia don’t take credit.” Ward corrected him, pulling out of where he’d parked. “Not really lying. Anyway, it made him feel important.”

Ward checked his mirrors. Fitz was looking out the window with his arms crossed, a troubled look on his face. Ward decided, unprofessionally, to not think about it.


	6. Chapter 6

The walls of the Private Collection building were white, scrubbed so meticulously that Fitz could almost see his reflection in the paint. Fitz wandered past them, trying his best to walk casually and resist the urge to rubberneck to keep Ward in his field of vision. He had taken point and was thus several feet ahead of them, reading a plaque in front of a bizarre vase.

Russian chatter rose around them. Fitz welcomed the unintelligibility. It was better than spending two days in a cheap car with a spy and a self-described private military contractor, who were apparently only capable of agreeing when it came to how bathroom breaks were unnecessary.

“Oh, look at that.” Simmons said, pointing at what Fitz could only describe as the vomit of an extraordinarily overstimulated child. “What an interesting painting.”

“Reminds of that time you tried to make an unflavored rainbow food dye for my birthday cake and accidentally put in ipecac syrup.”

“That was not my fault.”

Fitz looked down the hallway. There were wide windows on one side, letting in natural light that reflected off the glass case in the center. The case was ten feet tall, five feet wide, with dozens of vaguely medieval artifacts suspending within. Fitz couldn’t tell what they were, as the descriptions were all written in Russian. On the other side of the hall were the openings into smaller galleries. Fitz had been in the one about the tombs of Ancient Cyprus and the one about jewelry. Whitehall’s exhibit, _The History of the Battle_ (История битвы) was in a gallery at the very end.

Even with a map from the front desk, it had taken them almost an hour to get there. Mostly because the map was in Russian, and Ward insisted that they couldn’t just follow him.

_We don’t know each other_. He’d been very emphatic about it. He’d taken a different route to the 2 nd floor, going through Greek amphorae and plaster cats. Fitz had only just spotted him again, drifting casually down the wide hallway. He’d paused to read a placard, comparing it to what was on his map. No one was paying him the slightest attention. 

Fitz tugged on his collar. There was hardly any airflow, and the museum was already overheated. A crowd of Russian schoolchildren pushed by them, jabbering at each other and violating the no running rules. Fitz moved closer to Simmons. In the enormous gallery, there was enough of a crowd that they could easily be separated.

“All right, Fitz?” Simmons asked. Her face was a bit flushed, and her hair drooped, but her eyes were still bright.

“I’m fine.” Fitz said. “Let’s go look at some history, yeah?”

The exhibit in the center of the hall was, Fitz deduced, meant to be about everyday life. There were dresses and tunics and all manner of crude tools. Fitz had a great deal of trouble trying to picture what sort of everyday life involved that many hooked implements. They wove around the schoolchildren, all clustered around a jeweled mace just close enough to the glass to keep security anxious, and toward the entrance to История битвы.

It was being blocked by the tour group. Ward had slipped through them somehow and was meandering into the gallery, not at all bothered. Fitz thought with some irritation that the woman leading the group might have positioned her people a bit less obtrusively.

Simmons paused at the end of the center exhibit, where a collection of cosmetics had been set in the glass. She peered at the labels. “My. They certainly put plastic surgery into perspective, don’t they?”

“Hm?” Fitz barely looked at them, trying to peer through the group into the gallery. The woman was still speaking in Russian, gesturing at what was either a bird bath or a urinal.

“I mean, talk about wild measures to keep up appearances…” She was reading the scientific names off the blurbs beside the potions.

“Could we not talk about keeping up appearances when we’re trying to infiltrate a museum?”

“Fitz, relax.” Simmons lowered her voice. “You heard what Ward and Hunter told us, no one is going to attack us in the Pushkin National Museum.”

“I’m not worried about being attacked!” Fitz said, trying to lower his voice despite his indignity. “I’m worried that a security guard is going to notice us and ship us to Siberia.”

“Come on.” Simmons said. “That group is moving.” The woman was shuttling her people along under the arc and into the next stage of gallery. Fitz and Simmons followed.

This display was exclusively devoted to warfare, and it showed. The group was quieter, the woman barely speaking above a whisper. The walls were made of darker material than the sandstone outside and there were no windows. They were lined with weaponry, ranging from arrowheads to a twelve foot long lance.

Whitehall’s armor was arrayed at the back wall. There were only five sets, placed equidistant from one another. Though they were nowhere near identical—one was made of bronze, another of cold glistening steel, another had a yellow surcoat and another was in blue—but they were posed the same, straight backed with hands folded over their weapons.

There were more uniforms hung on the wall behind them, ranging from camouflage suits to leather breastplates. The higher on the wall they were, the more modern they tended to be. It sent uncomfortable feelings down Fitz’s back.

“Oh, my.” Simmons said quietly. She folded her hands in front of her, to stop them from shaking. Already large and set on foot high stands, the armor loomed over the room. The visors stared down at them, somehow without mercy. “I can’t help but notice that the yellow one is missing a hand.”

The hand was with Hunter, who had flatly refused to come with them. He was loitering outside, and meant to only come in if they needed backup. Judging by the way he’d been lacing his coffee and settling into his seat, he didn’t plan on being needed.

Ward had his back to the armor, and to them. He was reading a very long placard next to a series of pointy helmets.

“I’ll be right back.” Fitz said. He pushed his way through the tour group, getting himself more than a few glares, to stand next to Ward. Fitz put his hands in his pockets, pretending that he also found pointy helmets fascinating. “It’s the same armor that Whitehall was modifying.”

“I noticed.” Ward said quietly. “And in case you were wondering, this is the opposite of discreet.”

“Well excuse me for reporting back.” Fitz said. “What now?”

“We already have a sample.” Ward said. He stepped away from Fitz, inspecting the eyeslits of the helmets. “We find out which subordinate Whitehall trusted enough to do the installation, and if the armor in itself is enough to put the Russian government on him. If we can tip them off they might arrest him for us.”

“So…that means leaving, yeah?”

“No, that means staking out the exhibit.” Fitz groaned. “Not a fan?”

“I can’t read any of the signs and everything in this exhibit can probably kill me. Also there’s about twenty billion people in this museum who keep breathing on me.” The edge of Ward’s mouth turned up. “Fine. Twenty thousand, it still smells.”

 “So you’re not a people person?” Ward asked, moving on to eye a broadaxe with rather worrying speculation.

“I’m a bloody delight when it comes to people, I mind _hordes_.” Fitz said. “And quit analyzing me.”

“I was just asking a question.”

“I don’t believe that for a single minute.” Fitz sniffed.

“Hold on--” Ward began.

“I’m just _saying_ , you have an agenda.” Fitz used his brochure to fan his face. “And it bloody smells in here.”

“Those are preservatives, all archeological exhibits are like that.” Ward said. “Go get some fresh air, if it bothers you that much.”

“It’s just as bad in the main exhibit, this place has terrible ventilation.” Fitz grumbled.

“The window in the corner opens.”

“I’m not a superspy, I can’t just jump out a window.”

“There a balcony.” Ward said, sounding amused. “There’s a little handle in the corner, it’s a fire exit. I saw the tour woman unlock it a second ago and go outside for a smoke. And she was wearing heels and a flower dress, so I think it’s within your capabilities.”

“What are you trying to say there?” Fitz asked, his tone rising.

“That you should stop bothering me before someone notices that a random student from the UK and a respectable Russian businessman are for some reason having a long chat.” Ward responded.

“You know normal people do interact with strangers sometimes, right?” Fitz asked. “Or is that always outside your mission parameters?” Fitz turned on his heel and stalked away, back toward Simmons. She was standing with her arms crossed in front of the yellow surcoat, looking discomfited.

She glanced at Fitz when he appeared. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Just…Russians and bad lighting and bloody frustrating spies.” Fitz wiped his forehead. “Want to go get some air?”

Simmons put a hand to her forehead. “Sorry?”

“It’s a bit stuffy in here.” Fitz closed his eyes. “And it smells like decaying papyrus.”

“It really is absolutely…” Simmons took a deep breath, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Fitz, do you feel odd? Like, your heart rate is off and everything’s making you twitchy?”

“Yeah.” Fitz agreed. “I can’t believe I used to make my Mum drag me to the Science Centre when I was little.”

“It doesn’t remind me of papyrus, though.” Simmons said. “It’s…” She stopped, face going pale.

Fitz heard a loud thump, behind him. He turned around. It was one of the kids from the school group. They’d collapsed. Fitz wanted to open his mouth and shout that they had a doctor, and he could see the teacher on her knees, shaking their shoulders. Then the teacher keeled over too.

Simmons’ hand went to her throat, her eyes wide. Fitz looked to Ward as another person collapsed. People were trying to run for the exit and falling too quickly. Ward was swaying on his feet, somehow next to the fallen student. He’d shoved a handkerchief over his mouth but he was obviously short of breath, looking at Fitz and Simmons with eyes wide.

“It’s my gas.” Simmons whispered. She grabbed her cardigan and pulled it over her mouth, coughing. Fitz followed her example and dragged his wool sweater over his head. He spat on it too, trying to wet the fabric.

“But that’s nonfatal?!” Fitz managed, looking at Ward. Ward was on one knee now, still fighting to stay conscious. He kept looking from Fitz to something beyond him.

“I think so but I never did a human test! And I certainly never tested it on children!” Simmons clutched at the wool over his face, trying desperately to keep her breathing shallow. “Oh my god Fitz, what do we do, we haven’t even got our mobiles!”

Ward’s eyes slid from Fitz, to behind him.

“Fire door!” Fitz spun around. There was the window, and more importantly there was a little red box beside it. Fitz didn’t have to know to read Russian to know that he should pull the lever. He stumbled toward it, and pulled.

There were no sirens. Someone had disabled the alarms. But there was still the door to a balcony outside, where the air was breathable. Fitz’s hand went to the handle.

A metal arm snapped down on his wrist. Fitz went stumbling back, staring up at the suit of armor between him and the door.

“Simmons, run!” He shouted. A gauntlet closed on his shirt and flung him back. He hit Ward, whose hands were sliding on the floor as he tried to stand, and they both went over, chests hitting the tile. Fitz squirmed up, his head spinning as the little protection offered by wet wool began to fade. Simmons was still in the room, her eyes enormous. The armor was stomping its way to him and Ward, hindered but in no way deterred by the bodies in its path. “Go!”

Simmons spun around and bolted for the exit. Another suit was marching that way but she was faster. Fitz watched through the door as she reached the very end of the glass display and _stopped_ , slapping at the glass like some sort of madwoman.

Fitz stared at her, the gas making his brain more and more sluggish. She was running her hands up and down the sides of the case. Armor was marching at her. Simmons spun around, wringing her hands, then grabbed a woman’s purse off the ground and swung it into the display. Glass shattered and alarms screamed into life. Fitz let out a half mad laugh at the genius. Ward was still twitching.

Then he took that praise back because Simmons had snatched one of the grimy bottles and was running back into the room. She grabbed a curved dagger off the wall and hit the ground in a slide, rolling under the armor blocking the exit. Fitz gaped at her as she flung herself to her knees next to Ward.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She whimpered. The cardigan fell off her face as she grabbed the sleeves of Ward’s suit, trying to roll it up with shaking hands. Ward stared up at her, clinging to the last traces of consciousness. Jemma tried to uncork the vial, her hands shaking, and couldn’t. She let out a sob of frustration before grabbing the knife and gouging it through the decayed cork. The vial shattered, sending clear liquid trickling down the blade. “I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry.”

Fitz tried to croak a warning as the armor advanced on her. A fist rose over her head. Jemma saw the shadow and twisted, looking up with wide terrified eyes. She ducked to the side and it came crashing down beside her instead. Simmons couldn’t run. Her only weapon was a few shards of glass and a tiny knife.

She let out another sob and stabbed the knife directly into Ward’s leg.

Fitz was right beside him, so he saw as Ward’s pupils immediately dilated, his mouth opening in an enormous gulp for air. Simmons fell back as Ward slid smoothly to his feet, grabbing her shoulder and half throwing her behind him.

The armor loomed over them, but Ward was on his feet, grabbing the axe from behind them and sending it crashing down on the armor’s shoulders. Metal screeched and Ward spun, suit jacket flying out behind him and exposing the useless gun tucked into his pants. The axe was still stuck in the armor and the leverage sent it turned with Ward, going off balance. Ward dragged the axe away and turned it, so the broad side rather than the blade collided with the helmet, pushing it down. The armor fell to the floor with a thunderous crash.

But there were four suits of armor. And now all of them were advancing on Ward. He tossed the axe aside, in front of Fitz and Simmons. It was mangled, the wooden handle splintering. Fitz cloudily thought about product durability.

Ward’s head snapped from side to side, looking at security cameras. Whatever he saw made him bare his teeth in frustration. The armor was drawing closer. Ward reached behind him for another weapon.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Fitz breathed, as Ward leveled the lance in front of him.

“Does he know that you need the force of a large galloping animal for that to be effective?” Jemma asked. Her hand flapped to Fitz’s and he clutched it.

Apparently, Ward did. He took two steps back then drove the point of the lance down, into the ground. The lance bent and Ward kicked off the display case behind him. He went up into the air, vaulting over the heads of the armor and scraping the ceiling. He dropped the lance to land in a crouch.

The armor had to turn slowly to face him. Ward snatched a mace from the wall and rotated his wrist, whirling the spiked ball. He grinned up at the security camera, teeth bared. Fitz was abundantly certain that whoever was watching there, and that certainly wasn’t the museum security, was focused entirely on Ward. Not on him and Simmons at all. All four suits of armor were marching toward Ward. He went into what must have been a combat stance. He looked ready.

Then he wobbled on his feet, a slightly confused look on his face.

“Oh, no.” Simmons whispered. Ward dodged back instead of attacking as his opponents drew closer, breathing hard. “Oh no, oh no.”

Ward doubled over, clutching his stomach. The yellow surcoat sent an arm into him and he went flying into a display case, shattering the glass.

“What’s wrong with him!?” Fitz managed.

“I had to get him up somehow.” Simmons babbled. “It was going to kill you both and I don’t know what to do and there must be hundreds of people in the museum—” Ward dragged himself to his feet, his face darkly flushed. He was panting, and Fitz could see the spittle on his lips. “It’s atropine, it blocks the acetylcholine receptors in the brains.”

“Where…” Fitz stared at Ward as his hands formed fists.

But there was the sound of heavy boots, and muffled shouts. Police sirens bellowed outside. The suits of armor froze as one. Ward kept his fists raised as they retreated, going back to their posts. The suit he had knocked over, the blue, was still on the floor. The arms and legs clanked uselessly as it tried to right itself.

“Atropa Belladonna.” Simmons whispered. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, as if about to throw up. “Medieval…medieval woman used it as eyedrops, because it dilated their pupils.” She choked. “It’s a poison.”

Ward turned to look at the arch, where people with medical kits were coming. He wobbled, a ribbon of spit dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Ward?” Fitz asked urgently. Ward staggered. “Ward!”

Ward looked at him blankly, wobbling, before collapsing. He landed on his back with a dull thump, in the center of the bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but PSA don't ever actually try to counteract a nerve agent via belladonna, you will die. You will hardcore die. This is 100% twisted science that only works because this is James Bond Fusion and there's a high tradition in spy stories of deeply improbable medical events and I felt my fic would be incomplete without at least one scene that would make an actual practitioner fall out of their seat laughing. 
> 
> Just wanted to put that out there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update!

Voices filtered through Ward’s drugged mind.

_He’s been poisoned, he needs a hospital! It’s not the same as us…_

_Ward! Ward?!_

Then hands on his shoulders, professional hands. And another pair, male, not at all professional grabbing at his belt and his waist. Ward almost smiled. He knew those hands. He felt the reassuring cold block against his back being slid away and groaned. Someone was taking his gun. No. Yes. That was good. If there were authorities that was good.

_Do you know who he is?_ in Russian, paramedics then. Ward tried to open his eyes and protest. They couldn’t send him to a hospital. They had to take him to somewhere that had an understanding with MI6, but his lips were swollen and his throat was dry.

_Grigory Gerasimov, it says so here_ ah there was another Russian flavored with English. He was outside. Hunter was taking his identification from his pocket and passing it to paramedics. Ward felt them lifting him onto a stretched and managed to raise his arm an inch before it was strapped down. His body convulsed suddenly, wracking pain seizing him.

_Hurry!_ a panicked woman.

_Wait they can’t just carry him off alone—_

We don’t know each other. Ward tried to say it, but there was something shredding inside him.

_I’ll tell them that I’m his—I mean, we can tell him that Simmons is wife, they have to let us go with them in the ambulance_

_They won’t. Trust me, I’ve had experience, its only family_

Blackness ripped through his body and across his vision, and Ward finally passed out.

\--

He opened his eyes in a hospital. They hadn’t secured his wrists to the bed. There was no IV in his arm. It dangled from an empty pouch next to the bed. They were done giving him drugs. His head was still heavy, but that might have been exhaustion. His shoulders ached from being thrown into the case, and there was a numb patch in his right leg.

Ward sat up, looking around warily. There were six other people in the ward with him, and none of them were doctors. They were all lying in their beds, some awake, some not. Ward pushed the sheet off himself. He was wearing a paper gown, white with vertical black stripes.

He felt along his leg. The numbness began a few inches above a bandage on his thigh, from where Simmons had stabbed him. Ward grimaced. When he swung his legs over the side of the bed he was able to stand, but he would rather have had the pain.

His paper gown flapped behind him. Ward snapped a hand behind him, yanking the paper over his back. The old man in the bed beside his let out a sharp cackle. Ward took a deep breath, and was very glad they’d left him his underwear.

They’d also left his wallet and passport, along with the museum tickets and brochure. Ward picked them up and headed out of the ward. The tile was very cold on his bare feet. Ward looked up and down the hallway. He hadn’t been intensive care, but he doubted they would let him walk out.

He ducked back into the ward as a nurse hurried along the hallway. She was absorbed in her chart, and didn’t look up quickly enough to notice him. Ward looked around the ward. There were beds, and IVs. There was a window between his bed and the old man. Ward looked out.

He was at the edge of the hospital, between it and what looked like an insurance agency. Ward felt along the edge of the window and slowly dragged the sill open. The gust of air sent his thin gown flapping against the lines of his body.

Something had to be done about that. Ward sighted a cabinet at the close end of the ward. He hurried over and opened it. Sure enough, there were needles, spare IV bags, and a few sets of dark blue scrubs. Ward rapidly stripped and donned the scrubs. There was just enough room in the pockets to fit his wallet and his passport.

There would be questions, about payment. And they would be curious. There was nothing a doctor liked more than a scar. Ward walked back to the window and looked down. The hospital was an old brick building. Ward wiggled his toes.

He would just have to do without shoes. Ward stepped onto the sill. The old man gaped at him. Ward nodded formally. _“Can’t deal with the insurance premium.”_

No one would believe him, and Ward was incalculably grateful that he wasn’t going to survive to an age where his basic credibility was in doubt. He hopped more than climbed down the side of the building, going from brick edifice to brick edifice until he landed in the alley, the bottoms of his feet stinging.

He headed out, walking as if he were wearing shoes. In this area of Moscow, they’d be used to nurses and doctors wandering about. He kept going until he found a tailor’s shop, again not far. Ward walked in and eyeballed a black suit, two button with side vents and a double breast. Flannel, and when Ward walked out, tying his black tie into a Windsor as he went, it was properly trim around his shoulders. Not as well fitted as MI6’s tailors could do, but respectable enough.

He wondered if he should ditch his identification. The hospital would have his name on record, but not his photograph. He felt well enough to think that they wouldn’t be concerned for this health, and the Russian healthcare system didn’t have the same fangs as certain others.

But if someone called the hospital looking for people who had been admitted after the incident at the Pushkin…as he walked across the bridge over the Moskva, he tossed the passport over the edge. In the twilight, it was invisible as it sailed through the air.

Their hotel wasn’t far from the museum. But Hunter was smart enough to move them. Ward paused, looking at the entrance to the Vernost. He turned around, scanning the area. If he was going to move them, he would go to the Kempinski.

But Hunter was cheap. Ward strolled through the streets until he reached the Pokrova, plastering on a scowl as soon as he saw the pale yellow stone. He pushed open the doors to the lobby and strode up to the front desk.

_“Excuse me.”_ He said in Russian. _“My name is Alexei. I am looking for an employee. His name is Timurov.”_ The rather tired looking clerk stared at up at him, mouth starting to open. Ward glowered down at him.

_“Ah.”_ The clerk said. He opened his book.

_“He checked in earlier today.”_ Ward said, his voice holding a threat.

_“Room 084.”_ The clerk said quickly. _“Andrei Timurov?”_

Ward nodded. _“Do not tell him I am coming.”_ Ward turned sharply and strode to the elevator. Floor 0 was directly above the lobby. Ward rode up staring at his feet, wondering if they had ordered in food. He hoped so.

Ward walked through the red and gold carpeting until he reached 084. He rapped sharply on the door. He heard someone at the peephole, then a chain being taken off the door.

“How the bloody hell did you get here?” Hunter demanded. He had Ward’s gun in one hand.

“Give me that.” Ward took the Beretta, ignoring Hunter’s indignant noise, and walked inside. There were two beds, in the same red and gold as the carpeting. The curtains had been drawn. Fitz and Simmons were on one bed. There were two platters of takeout beside them, and what looked like a Russian dictionary.

“Ward!” Fitz exclaimed, sitting up so fast that he almost knocked a tray over.

Ward unbuttoned his suit so he could more easily tuck his gun into the back. Fitz’s eyes raked over him.

“What are you doing out of the hospital?” Simmons demanded. Ward eyed her. She blushed. “I ah, I am _so_ sorry for stabbing you.”

“Not a problem. What did you use as a counteragent?” Ward asked. He folded his arms and stood by the side of the bed. Fitz awkwardly sat down, still staring at him. Behind them, Hunter made a disgusted noise.

“Ah, belladonna.” Simmons said. She frowned at his leg. Ward sat down, ignoring the faint twinge. The anesthetic was starting to wear off.

“Effects should be over after six hours then.” Ward said. “What happened after I passed out?” He reached across the gap for takeout.

“Excuse me, but you are _not_ just off the hook.” Simmons said, slapping down his hand. She froze. Ward stared at her and slowly drew back his hand, resting it on a knee. Hunter dumped himself on the bed next to him.

“Well, I knew something was off as soon as I heard the sirens.” Hunter provided. “Doors were sealed, and the top security was sprawled over the desk. I waited outside until the men in masks came out with you on a stretcher.”

“Fatalities?” Ward asked.

“Three.” Simmons said quietly. Her knuckles were white.

“All with prior respiratory issues.” Fitz said sharply.

Ward put the pieces together. “You two designed the gas?”

“No. Only me.” Simmons said quietly.

“This wasn’t your fault.” Ward said. She shrugged. Ward leaned in. “Hey. Simmons.” She looked at him. “Do you know what makes someone a double-o agent?” She shook her head. “It means that we have a license to kill. The majority of secret service agents don’t. There are only nine, and there are almost always only two or three active at once.” Ward was fairly sure 005 was on a submarine somewhere, and he was avoiding thinking about 008. “We take accountability for loss of life seriously. Did you deploy the gas?”

Ward waited. “No.” Simmons said quietly.

“Did you seal the museum?” She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. “You developed a technology intended to be nonfatal, and did so under duress. Whitehall, or more likely one of his subordinates, is to blame for taking your invention and using it for murder.” Simmons slowly raised her head, to look in his eyes. Ward held her gaze. “Don’t cry. Get angry.”

She took a deep breath. “How did you break out of the hospital?”

“I stole a pair of scrubs and climbed out the window.” Ward responded. “When can I eat?”

“I’ll keep monitoring you until morning. You should be safe then.” Simmons said.

“Anyway.” Hunter interrupted. “Like I was saying, before all of your consciences interrupted, the new has reported it as a gas leak. Apparently they checked out the vents, and found that a cap to a natural gas flow under the city had cracked and leaked into the system. A security guard took responsibility for panicking and sealing the building.

Well, that would make their lives easier. Ward had already guessed by the open streets that it hadn’t been billed as a terrorist attack, but having it labelled that innocently was impressive maneuvering on someone’s part. “Whitehall must be very persuasive.”

“Money, probably.” Hunter said, with an air of wisdom.

Ward had some reservations on that. “Not just money. He needed appeal.”

“Money and a beautiful woman.” Hunter agreed.

“Victoria Hand?” Simmons suggested. Fitz rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying—”

“Why do you always fancy the scary ones?” Simmons raised her eyebrows at him. Fitz scowled. Ward’s eyes flicked between them, reading signals. “Anyway, I don’t think Hand would be willing to fly to Moscow just to flirt with a security guard. Bit too intimidating.”

“He’s right.” Ward said. “We’re looking for someone else.”

“We should check out the staff.” Hunter said. Ward nodded agreement. “First thing in the morning, yeah?” He looked at the two beds. “I guess I’ll be sleeping in the bathtub then.”

“I’m not tired.” Ward got to his feet. “The hotel bar is next to the lobby. Whitehall definitely id-ed all three of us at security in the museum. I’ll stay there, in case he sends a team to search nearby hotels.”

“Tag me in around midnight.” Hunter said, kicking his feet up on the bed.

“Oh, Simmons and I can take shifts too.” Fitz said. Hunter crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t comment. Ward glanced down at Fitz and shook his head. “Oh. Is this one of those things that involves improbable kicking?”

Ward nodded, fighting down a smile. Fitz sat back down and started to clear the takeout containers off his and Simmons’s bed. Ward left, closing the door softly behind him.

\--

Ward nursed the martini. He’d exchanged a sharp nod with the concierge, who seemed to be having an internal debate over whether he should call the police or not. His barstool didn’t have entrance visibility, but the desk and elevator were in his line of fire. He was only one left at the bar.

The elevator doors opened and Fitz emerged, holding a carton. He hopped onto the stool next to Ward. “Simmons fell asleep—I brought you some leftovers.”

“Thanks.” Ward flipped open the takeout box. Stroganoff and about a kebab and a half. “Perfect. Should I order you a scotch?”

“Ha, ha.” Fitz said. “I wanted to say thanks for talking to Simmons.”

“She going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” Fitz said. He looked down at the bar. “Are you all right as well? That armor hit you pretty hard.”

Ward rolled one shoulder. “Fine.” He paused. “You developed the technology on those?” Fitz nodded. “Not your fault either.”

“Somebody once said that once you bring something into the world, you’re responsible for the actions taken with it.” Fitz said moodily.

Ward rolled his eyes. “You’re a scientist, not a parent.” Fitz snorted. “Take it from someone who actually kills. Neither of you needs to be worried.”

“Ah.” Fitz said. He leaned on the bar. “You can buy me that scotch now.”

Ward called over the bartender. The man gave Ward an ugly look, which Ward returned with interest. It made the man pale slightly, and pour Fitz a scotch that was possibly deeper than strictly proper.

“So, you jumped out a hospital window?” Fitz asked. Ward nodded. “I’d have paid to see that. Did you steal the suit off another patient?”

“Bought it once I left.” Ward said. Fitz snorted. “I like suits.”

“Is that your whole life?” Fitz asked. “Suits, and guns, and…I don’t know, boys or girls or whatever?”

Ward shrugged. “I also like history.”

 “I _knew_ nobody could fake that much interest in pointy hats.” Fitz said triumphantly. Ward laughed slightly. “Is that why your boss gave you this assignment?”

Ward blinked. He was sure his hobbies were listed in his file, but it never occurred to him that M would quietly take his preferences into account when she was picking his jobs. “I have no idea.” He took a deeper sip of his martini.

“What was that face for?” Fitz asked.

Ward shook his head. Fitz leaned in, squinting. Ward leaned back, trying to keep a distance. “What?”

“You may be a superspy, but I have scotch.” Fitz said, rotating his wrist and making the amber liquid splash against the sides of the glass. “You looked sad.”

Ward sighed. “I knew something was wrong.” Fitz’s brows contracted. “The security camera was on a loop. Someone had taken over the stream. There was gas in the air. I was distracted…” _by you_ “and I didn’t pick up on the warning signs until it was too late.”

“Seriously?” Fitz asked. “You saved our lives.”

“I fucked up.” Ward said. He drank the last of his martini and looked at the clock above the bar. He should have had a watch, but it was back at the hospital. He hadn’t wanted to risk annoying M by buying something expensive enough to go with his suit. “This whole mission has been a disaster.”

“I don’t think that’s really fair.” Fitz said. “You’re pursuing Whitehall, that’s more than you were supposed to do, right? Since you already investigated and found out something was wrong?”

Ward half grinned down at him. “Aren’t you mad at me for that investigation?”

“I’ve decided to be a magnanimous person.” Fitz smiled, smiling. “In light of your repeated saving my life.”

Ward remembered. “I almost forgot. You got my gun.”

“I thought you might not want it falling in Russian hands.” Fitz said.

Ward smiled at him slightly. “Thanks. That would have caused even worse complications.” He ran a finger along the edge of his martini, taking off the rest of the salt. “For future reference though? Don’t let them take me to the hospital at all.”

“You know you were convulsing, right?” Fitz asked.

Ward shook his head. “Still. It’s not worth the risk. I got out easy because of an imperfect infrastructure, next time let me—”

“Bleed out?” Fitz asked, a sudden sharpness in his tone.

“Stich myself up or find somewhere more discreet.” Ward said. “I’m sure Hunter knows a place.”

“You spies are all mad.” Fitz said. He swallowed the rest of his scotch. “Hunter should be down soon.” Ward looked over his shoulder, warily. The bartender was half asleep. “It’s not tourist season. I’ll bet there’s another room open.”

Ward hesitated, just a moment. Then he decided that just _once_ in this mission, he was going to use his better judgment. There had been enough complications already, he wasn’t about to risk being arrested for another. “It’s more crowded than you think.”

“Oh.” Fitz said. Ward glanced at the bottles above his head, shining in the dim bar lights, so he wouldn’t have to see the hurt. “Well. I’m going to head back upstairs.” Ward kept his eyes averted, so he wouldn’t have to see if Fitz looked back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the second late update in a week! It's summer and I'm starting to lose track of which day is which.

Fitz was the last one to wake up. He pushed his face away from the pillow and blinked around the room. Ward was in front of the mirror, tying his tie. His suit looked like he’d had it pressed in the night, and he’d clearly shaved. Fitz rubbed at his own stubble, grimacing. His mouth was foul from last night’s scotch and disappointment.

“Morning, sunshine.” Hunter said dryly. Fitz tore his gaze away. Hunter was sitting with his boots up on the bed, a plate of eggs on his lap. “Heavy sleeper, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well getting thrown into walls really takes it out of you.” Fitz sniped at him. He sat up, rubbing at his back. He could feel a great big bruise stretching from his shoulders to his pelvis.

“Ignore him, Fitz.” Simmons poked her head out of the bathroom. “I made you up a plate from the complimentary breakfast, it’s on the bedside table next to Ward’s gun.”

“I’ll be needing that.” Ward said, taking the two steps necessary to get around the bed and pick up the weapon. Fitz reached for his breakfast at the same time, and their hands brushed. He swore he saw Ward’s fingers twitch as he picked up the gun and tucked it into the back of his pants. “Hunter, you don’t have a spare shoulder holster?”

“Excuse me for not packing formalwear.” Hunter replied. He stabbed at a piece of egg and held up in front of his eyes, almost philosophically. “D’you suppose every hotel in Russia uses the same formula for their scrambling?”

“No idea.” Ward stepped back to the mirror and turned around. Hunter snickered, and Simmons put a hand over her mouth. Ward stopped looking at his backside to glare at them. “I have to make sure the gun doesn’t make the jacket bulge.”

“Whatever you say mate.” Hunter said. He grinned at Fitz. “What do you think Fitz, is his arse presentable?”

Fitz busied himself with his eggs. “I’ve only really looked at the bulge in the front of his pants, actually.”

Hunter hooted. Ward looked across the room at Fitz, his eyebrows joining together. Fitz shoved an enormous forkload of food into his mouth and began to chew as obnoxiously as he was able. Simmons rescued him, stepping into Ward’s line of sight as she tied her hair back. “Anyway Fitz, now that you’re up, we’ve been…” she paused, blushing a bit “ _plotting_.”

“MI6 doesn’t plot.” Ward muttered ineffectually. “We _strategize_.”

“What’s the next step?” Fitz asked, glad of the distraction. Bloody hell, if morning afters were awkward, it was twenty times worse when you shared the room with your best friend and a mercenary and there wasn’t even an _after_ to peacock about.

“Talk to the museum people.” Hunter said. “See what Whitehall took. We figure it had to be a heist, no other reason to shut the place down but not advertise it as an attack.”

“And they’re just going to let us all walk in the Pushkin and nose about?” Fitz asked skeptically.

“Well, Ward already has credentials.” Simmons said, sitting next to him. “If the Pushkin checks into his background, they’ll find that he’s with the British Museum, which happens to have several rather valuable bits of art on loan to Russia. He’s going to go and talk to the senior curator and see if anything was actually stolen.”

“They’ll just tell you?” Fitz asked, still skeptical.

“They will.” Ward said. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “I’ll make them nervous.”

Oh, Fitz bet that Ward knew how to make them nervous.

“You and I are going to be scientists.” Simmons said. “Well, not that we’re _going_ to be scientists, we already are scientists, but we’re going to be pretend scientists who want to analyze some samples from the Scottish tapestries they have on loan.” Fitz opened his mouth to object. “I know, we don’t speak Russian! That’s why Hunter is going coming with us as a translator!” She beamed.

“Why not make Ward do it?” Fitz asked.

“It’s handier if they don’t know I can speak Russian.” Ward said. “Espionage is nine tenths distraction—if they think that Hunter is the only one who understands them, they won’t pay as much attention to the rest of us.”

“So is that what Simmons and I are supposed to really do?” Fitz challenged. “Distract?”

“I don’t know what we’re going up against there.” Ward said grimly. “You and Simmons are clearly assets, you proved that the first time we went here.”

“Hear that, Fitz?” Simmons asked, beaming. “ _Assets_.”

Fitz couldn’t deny that he felt a bit flattered. “Well. If you really want our scientific opinion.” He paused, studying Ward. Ward stared directly back into his eyes, which Fitz was fairly sure meant that Ward was just as uncomfortable as he was and just had very different social conditioning. Nine tenths of espionage was distraction?

“I’m going to scope out the block before we leave.” Ward said abruptly. “The rest of you follow in five.”

He turned and was out the door in a flash, shutting it behind him with a neat click.

“Pretty sure any bulges by his arse would just be the enormous stick he’s got crammed up it.” Hunter said lightly. “Take as much time as you like getting ready, they’re not going to take us seriously if we’re punctual anyway. All the eccentric geniuses go at their own pace.”

“Right.” Fitz muttered. He pushed off the covers and got out, wincing as his bare feet landed on the scratchy carpet. “How did we get identification for being scientists, anyway?”

“MI6 proved to be slightly useful.” Hunter said grudgingly. “Ward contacted the Moscow Branch and they sent a runner across the city with a new set of papers. They had the whole thing fixed in half an hour, best bit of cover work I’ve ever seen. Scary good.”

“Wow.” Fitz said. He rubbed his cheek with his wrist. “Never seen _you_ that impressed.”

“I didn’t say I was impressed.” Hunter said defensively. “They’re a nuisance. One cover package and we’re expected to report back in as soon as they’ve distracted the Russian service enough to fake their agent a legal entry to the country. Bloody ridiculous.”

“If you say so.” Fitz couldn’t say he minded having the system with them. He’d slept in yesterday’s clothes, a visit to a nice comfortable spy base sounded almost heavenly. “I’m going to shower.”

“There’s shampoo and soap in there, and I picked you up a toothbrush from the lobby!” Simmons called after him. “And we’ve got fresh clothes as well!”

Fitz spun around. “Who picked them up?”

“I did!” Simmons sounded a bit offended. “Well, I sent Ward out for them anyway. I’m the only one here who knows your sizes.”

“Right.” Fitz ran a hand through his hair.

“I think this espionage business may be getting to you, if you think Ward’s memorized your measurements already.” Simmons informed him.

“Shut up.” Fitz muttered, and shut the bathroom door on her.

\--

The curator who met with them was six feet tall and paunchy, with a florid face and meticulously cleaned nails. He wore a suit which Ward judged as reasonably expensive and his shoes had been professionally shined. He spoke politely to Hunter and shook all their hands with a firm grip and disapproved of their presence in his museum.

He was also _furious_. Ward could hear it every time his shoes tapped against the tiles. Ward held his hands behind his back and kept his eyes inquiringly on Hunter as pleasantries were exchanged. He watched the curator with the rest of his senses. He could feel the pent-up anger radiating from him like waves of heat. Whoever hired the Pushkin staff had picked the right man for self-control.

Ward wasn’t impressed. He had control too.

_“The toxin reports have already come back from the lab.”_ The curator said. He led them into the bowels beneath the museum, away from the exhibits, away from the desks and filing cabinets. This was where the lights were dimmer and white sheets covered the tables. _“There is very little for your scientists to do here.”_

Hunter translated it word for word. Rather to Ward’s surprise, he didn’t even add a comment about the curator being a prick, though he was quite clearly thinking it.

“Tell him we’ll want to use our own judgement on that.” Fitz said, looking around. His shoulders were tight. “Er, where are the…the samples?” Hunter did add a bit more dignity to the language when he translated that. Ward nodded at him approvingly. Hunter waited until the curator wasn’t looking then eloquently rolled his eyes.

_“We have taken most of our pieces out of their display cases for inspection.”_ The curator said. Ward knew that. He saw them laid out on tables as they meandered through the basement, other Pushkin employees hunched over them with magnifying glasses and tiny brushes. _“It will be impossible for me to take my employees from their work.”_

“We’re surprised he trusts him employees that much after the debacle with the security guard.” Ward said grimly, testing the water. Time to find out what that anger really was.

The curator shot him an ugly look once that was translated. Ward drew himself to his full height and stared back at him, eyes cold. Just because he had no actual authority here didn’t mean he shouldn’t fake it.

_“The guard in question has been dismissed, I assure you.”_

“Not brought up on charges?” Ward asked. He stepped closer to a table where a young staff member in white latex gloves was checking the paint on a pottery fragment, trying desperately not to listen in or be noticed.

_“After an accident?”_ The curator moved closer to the table as well, herding Ward away. His chest puffed out as he glared. Ward let himself be pushed back, as if he couldn’t be bothered to really care. He could feel Simmons and Fitz both watching, and wondered how much of this nonverbal dance they could read.

“Quite an accident.” Ward wondered if it was too late to establish camaraderie. That was his least efficient point as an agent, and it would be harder with a translator. “My scientists will need to see the entire collection immediately, regardless of what prior work your people have done on it.”

Hunter translated it as _our_ scientists, much to Ward’s gratitude. It was better to remind the curator at every opportunity that they were only small representatives of a larger body.

“Tell him we’re happy to look at the rest of his collection as well.” Simmons added. “If he’d like a second opinion.” She beamed at the curator as Hunter translated. The curator put his hands in his pockets.

_“Our scientists are more than capable.”_ His tone was tight. Ward watched as Simmons kept smiling brightly and the curator looked down at the rest of the pottery lying near them.

“Oh, it wouldn’t be any trouble! We flew all the way here and since we only have a few pieces to look after…” Simmons trailed off, hesitating.

“Getting to coordinate with your analyzers might help our assessment.” Fitz swung in after her, interrupting Hunter’s attempt to translate. Hunter had to cough to cover his involuntarily laugh, and Ward qualified his approval. “We should be working together after all.”

_“Our scientists are more than capable.”_ The curator repeated.

Whitehall’s heist had been successful. Ward knew it as soon as he heard the ring of rehearsal in the curator’s lines.

“Ask him to hurry up and bring us to where our loan is being stored.” Ward said. The curator couldn’t refuse him, no matter his tone, and began to lead them away from the common work space. Ward scowled at all the employees they passed, making them shrink back in their seats.

Fitz poked his back. “Any reason you’re trying to make them all wet their pants?”

“I’m creating an atmosphere.” Ward muttered back at him. Fitz made an amused noise. Ward quickened his pace just a bit, so he was too far away to facilitate a whispered discussion.

_“Your contributions are just in here.”_ The curator said. The doorway was pushed into a corner, more like a closet than a lab. The inside was just as small. Two metal tables were laid out in the middle, with only enough room between them and the walls for one person to walk. The equipment placed at their disposal rudimentary at best.

The lighting, however, was carefully done. It was dim and warm, nothing that might hurt the two paintings and one very old sculpture, lying there atop layers of padding. The curator valued them.

“This is what we have to work with?” Simmons asked. She looked to the curator, her face dismayed. He blushed. Ward mentally tipped his hat to her.

_“I, ah, I am very sorry.”_ The curator said awkwardly. _“I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. We are not operating at peak organization at the moment, the order for tools must have been mishandled. I will rectify the situation at first opportunity.”_

“Tell him he should make an opportunity.” Ward said, in response to the translation. He leaned against the door, casually ensuring that no one would leave or enter.

The curator glared at him, but didn’t seem to have an answer.

“If we do find anything wrong, ask him if we can consult with his people.” Fitz added.

“This could be a rich opportunity for international cooperation.” Ward said. He didn’t smile. “Our director has asked me to renegotiate the contract between our establishments in the light of this incident, and while we’d prefer to strengthen ties…”

He saw the implications of the lie flash behind the curator’s eyes. Their combined bevy of wrongful acquisition suits aside, both institutions had more than a few priceless treasures to covet. Far more precious than the bits of art lying before them.

The curator was sweating. Ward straightened and paced toward him. Every step was measured.

_“That wasn’t mentioned when we set up the appointment.”_ The curator’s eyes flicked at him, panic starting to encroach. This would take longer than whatever time he had allotted in his schedule for Ward. And there were other pressing concerns eating at him.

“We thought it was implied.” Ward said to Hunter. The insult slipped right beneath the curator’s pride, cutting hard. “Surely he set aside the time?”

_“I…”_ The curator swallowed. _“I would dearly like to discuss further exchange of collection pieces with the British Museum.”_

“Then let’s go to his office.” Ward said. Someone was waiting in this man’s office. There was an angry director and worse. Government leanings? “The media attention from this incident will increase traffic in the Pushkin, and we have many art specimens which don’t receive sufficient attention in London.”

Hunter’s tone was perfectly level as he leveled the bait. The curator actually licked his lips. _“We…this process couldn’t be rushed.”_

“Ideally this exhibit would be in place when the Pushkin reopens.” Ward responded. The curator swallowed again. “It could be a replacement.”

_“A replacement.”_ The curator repeated Hunter’s words, relief evident in his tone. Then his eyes snapped to Hunter then Ward in faint horror. Ward put his shoulders back and held their eye contact. Hunter lowered his voice, slipping quietly out of his active role as a distractor.

“What did they take?” Ward asked, gambling.

It paid off. The curator’s face seemed to crumple. Away from his underlings and with enormous pressures waiting for him, he was theirs. _“The Diadem. They took Helen’s jewels._ ”

It took all of Ward’s training to keep his face straight until Hunter relayed the information. The jewels of Helen, two diadems that were the prize of Priam’s treasure, contested and stolen and bound by Russian law to their museum as compensation for devastation during the Second World War. Famous, controversial, valuable far beyond their golden weight, and the last thing anyone could afford to lose.

“Which diadem?” Ward asked calmly.

_“The great diadem.”_ The curator said wretchedly. Ward made a subtle gesture with his hand to Fitz and Simmons. They pushed forward a chair and the curator sat down heavily, looking up at Ward. _“We will look like fools.”_

“Do you suspect separatists?” Ward asked, concern in his voice. He ran a hand through his hair in apparent distress. “Is the rest of the collection in danger?”

_“We removed it immediately, and we checked every other exhibit—there was nothing else missing, only the prize piece.”_ The curator shuddered. Hunter’s voice was sympathetic as he translated.

“I am so sorry.” Ward said gently. He patted the curator’s shoulder, repeating in his mind that it was only an awkward pat if he let it be an awkward pat. “We will help however we can.” What the hell did Whitehall need with a tiara? Ward imagined it was worth at least a million on black market, but you would have to be insane to buy an internationally famous artifact. There were private collectors, but it would have to be smuggled out of the country, and Whitehall would be running a massive risk even selling it by proxy.

Ward pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to the curator before stepping back to Fitz and Simmons. “Did you see that Whitehall had any financial difficulties?” He asked under his breath.

“None.” Simmons said quietly. “He always had the newest advancements in scientific equipment for us.”

“I never saw him sparing expense.” Fitz added. Ward frowned at the curator. He certainly wasn’t lying.

“What about romance?”

Simmons and Fitz simultaneously winced. Ward had to agree. And Whitehall’s dossier hadn’t included any information about a wife or a mistress—though that dossier had clearly missed a few other key details.

“Hunter?” Fitz asked. Hunter looked at him gratefully from his position of hovering by the curator. “Ask him if they checked everywhere for other missing artifacts.”

_“Everything on display.”_ The curator confirmed.

“What about what wasn’t on display?”

The curator only looked confused at that. _“What we keep below is always locked.”_

“We only want to know so I can accurately present the situation to our director.” Ward explained. He eyed Fitz.

Fitz lowered his voice. “Look. What you were saying earlier—espionage is nine tenths distraction. Whitehall took the most controversial thing in the whole museum. But he had the whole museum unconscious, who’s to say he didn’t take something else too, something no one would have noticed, especially not when they’re in uproar over this diadem thing?”

Ward stared at him, ruthlessly suppressing the surge of attraction trying to manifest itself. “Hunter, ask him if there’s anything he hasn’t had the time to check yet. Tell him we’ll check it for him.”

He quickly turned his back on Fitz as Hunter relayed the question in quiet Russian.

\--

They hadn’t checked the unexhibited German collection. They had checked the Numismatic collection and all the art not on display, but there were crates upon crates of unopened plunder from the Eastern front that had been deemed either too uninteresting or too controversial to install above ground, all neglected. The curator was happy to hand them a log of the contents and leave them alone to check the stacks. He had to make calls to superiors about Great Britain’s unexpected offer.

Ward wasn’t particularly worried about the fallout. M would bury his body far too discreetly for the director of the British Museum dig it up and kill him again.

“Couldn’t you have had a flash of brilliance that didn’t involve this much tedium?” Hunter grumpily asked Fitz as he opened a box and peered into the packing. “Look at this! How am I supposed to count this many snuff boxes?”

“You should try data analysis.” Simmons told him cheerily. She peered into another crate. The room was set up like a small warehouse, rows of crates that could be slid out from their stacks on tiny sets of wheels, rather like horizontal filing cabinets. It took a set of tiny keys to open them, which the curator had happily handed over. “It’s much worse, believe me.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Hunter replied. “Think they’d notice if I pinched one of these?”

“They would.” Ward said, from two stacks over. He was going through the crates, looking at the locks. The only set of keys which opened these had been kept in the curator’s desk, which had been locked through the heist.

“You know, I’m not getting paid for this.” Hunter grumbled.

“You should see if MI6 will compensate you.” Ward crouched in front of a case, checking the lock. It was undamaged. The locks on these weren’t complicated, but they would be hard to pick. They were too small for most trick keys.

“Lovely. More MI6.” Hunter said unenthusiastically.

“I don’t see why you’re so averse to them.” Simmons said. “You were a wonderful spy earlier today.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve got reasons.” Hunter said grimly. Ward tuned him out as he went back to inspecting locks. Hunter’s issues with the personnel of MI6 weren’t his problem. Hunter would be a great addition to Ward’s repertoire of contacts in Eastern Europe, and that was as far as their relationship went.

Ward heard footsteps approaching. Fitz was holding the log book, flipping through it as he looked at the crates. He paused when he saw Ward, then kept coming.

“What are you doing?” Fitz asked, bending down next to Ward. Ward closed his eyes for a moment.

“Checking for broken locks.”

“Faster than going through everything in here.” Fitz observed. “Are you just making Simmons and Hunter check the crates for fun then?”

“It _is_ funny listening to him whine.” Ward allowed. Fitz properly crouched next to Ward, the warmth of his leg pressing Ward’s thigh. Ward pressed his hand into his other leg, the heel of his palm grinding into where Simmons had stabbed him. The pain didn’t keep his head as clear as he’d hoped.

“Yeah, but not Simmons.” Fitz said. “Actually, Simmons and I didn’t have to be here at all. We didn’t really do much.”

Ward didn’t have the time to explain how untrue that was. “You did. Believe me.”

“Whatever. You brought us along because you didn’t want to leave us alone.” Fitz said. “You distracted us by calling us assets and you made sure we were near you because you’re trying to protect us.”

Ward sighed and stopped looking at locks to look at Fitz. Fitz’s face was only a few inches away. That made his train of thought teeter, and whatever he had been going to say died on his lips. They stared at each other, stacks of dead men’s treasures hemming out the rest of the world.

Ward moved away first. He heard Fitz’s quiet sigh of frustration.

“I don’t know what your _problem_ is.” Fitz said, his voice low.

“As soon as we find out what Whitehall stole, I can report back to MI6 and leave you and Simmons there.” Ward said flatly. He scanned the lock on the next case. “You’ll be back to normal life and…someone picked this lock.”

“What?” Fitz asked.

Whoever had done it had done a masterful job. If it wasn’t for the bit of disturbed dust, Ward never would have noticed the tiny white scratch at the edge of the keyhole, a scrape that no key would cause.

“Look up the contents of 543.” Ward told Fitz. Fitz flipped through the log, his brow furrowed.

“It’s all from some old castle by the Eastern front they raided. Belonged to someone named Werner Reinhardt, but he fled before the troops got in.” Fitz said. “Simmons! Can you grab us the key to 543?”

Simmons came hurrying around the stacks, the enormous keyring jangling in her hands. Hunter followed, clearly eager for the excuse to stop inspecting snuff boxes. Simmons passed the key to Ward. He opened the crate.

“Says there should be a large leather coat, a rolled up tapestry depicting a Mongol horde, a compass, a crystal candelabra, a journal, and set of diamond studded steak knives.” Fitz reported. He shook his head. “Can’t see why any of it would be valuable.”

“Oh I dunno, I wouldn’t mind some diamond studded steak knives.” Hunter said. He raised his hands at a look from Ward. “Kidding! Just kidding…”

Ward sorted through the packing carefully. “The journal is missing.” He could see the indent where it must have once been, a square book small enough to fit in a pocket. He very much hoped that the curator had made sure the contents had been photocopied.

\--

From the street, the MI6 office was boring. Fitz supposed that was to be expected. He’d been prepared for discretion, but he hoped it would be _interesting_ discretion, not just a concrete building with perfectly clear front windows. A quiet beep sounded when Ward pushed open the door, a file with transcriptions from the journal tucked into his jacket.

The reception area didn’t have any couches, and the desk was all the way across the room. A very normal looking woman sat there, focused on her computer. Ward took another step into the room. There was a soft click.

Bright red lasers abruptly appeared, scarlet beams crisscrossing the room in a perfect grid. The woman behind the desk slid smoothly to her feet, one finger pressed to her ear. Hunter let out a stream of curses.

“Agent 007.” Ward said. He didn’t look at all surprised. “I’m expected.”

“And them?” The receptionist inquired. Judging by the little pylons on the walls where they originated, these lasers were fully capable of splitting all of them into itty bitty pieces if they took a single step forward.

“Lance Hunter, Jemma Simmons, Leopold Fitz.” Ward said. “Civilian advisors.”

The receptionist took her hand away from her earpiece. “B approved them for entry.” She reached below her desk and the laser grid evaporated as seamlessly as it appeared. Fitz wished he had the freedom to examine it more closely. “She’s waiting in her office.”

“Hold on.” Hunter said. “I don’t want to go to anyone’s office, I just need a cash compensation for my time.” The receptionist eyed him. Hunter scowled. “Ward, make her stop giving me that look.”

“Come on.” Ward strode forward past the desk, his shoulders set. Fitz looked at Simmons. She forced a smile and nodded at him. They were with MI6 now. There was a small army of Agent Wards all around them, probably. It would all be fine.

They went into the office together.

B was leaning against the front of her desk, arms crossed, talking to Ward. She was tall, and unreasonably fit, and wearing a brown pinstriped suit that tapered along her legs and waist. Her long blonde hair bounced to just below her shoulder blades. Fitz knew Simmons’s squeak was coming before it happened.

“Oh, _my_.” Simmons said.

“Hi.” The agent straightened and held out a hand, smiling. “I’m Agent Bobbi Morse.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hunter said behind them. Agent Morse’s smile got just a bit tighter. She looked over their heads at Hunter, in the doorway. “You’ve _got_ to be bloody kidding me!”

“Hunter.” Agent Morse said calmly. “What are you doing in Russia?”

“What am I doing in—what are _you_ doing in Russia?!” Hunter demanded. “You operate out of France! Your office is in Paris!”

“I needed a change of scene.” Agent Morse said. She crossed her arms. Fitz noticed that Ward had very quickly moved himself out of the space between them. Fitz took Simmons’s arm and followed his example. “Too many memories.”

“Bloody hell.” Hunter muttered.

“And what are _you_ doing in Russia?”

“You asking for personal reasons or as a regional commander for the service?” Hunter asked pointedly.

“Both.” Agent Morse said.

“I wanted to get away from you.” Hunter snapped. “And away from bloody _Paris_.”

Agent Morse turned away from him, toward Fitz and Simmons. The motion made her hair swing around her, and Simmons made a sad noise. “Anyway. I’m the regional commander of the Russian branch of MI6. M tells me that the two of you have valuable information on Daniel Whitehall?”

“They’ll provide character testimony.” Ward supplied from his corner.

“Yes.” Simmons said. “We were his prisoners for ah, eighteen months? Right Fitz?”

“About that long.” Fitz agreed. “Agent Ward rescued us.” Fitz decided not to mention to Ward’s boss the exact circumstances of the rescue.

“They proved to be assets in the field as well as sources of information.” Ward said, stepping forward. He passed Agent Morse the file. “Whitehall orchestrated a heist of this and the greater of Helen’s diadems from the Pushkin museum. Fitz and Simmons both assisted in—”

“Hey.” Agent Morse held up a hand. “You don’t need to justify rescuing prisoners to me.” She looked and Fitz and Simmons. “Both of you are in a secure compound now. You’re safe.”

“We were safe with Ward.” Fitz said.

Agent Morse studied him. Fitz thought that, smiles and pretty hair aside, she and Ward had the same eyes. “I’m sure you were. And I’m sorry we weren’t able to help you sooner.”

“Was it not convenient?” Hunter asked.

“I’m on good terms with the Russian service right now.” Agent Morse said. “And they’re _not_ friendly people. I couldn’t sacrifice that by supporting a dangerous operative illegally entering the country. Sorry, 007.” She added apologetically to Ward. Ward shrugged, clearly not taking offense.

“Always the excuse.” Hunter muttered. “Can’t risk annoying the murder police by helping our own people!”

“What, exactly, do you want?” Agent Morse asked Hunter sharply.

“Money.” Hunter said. “Agent Ward and I forgot to sign a prenup and I’m in the red.”

“Sounds like business for 007’s report.” Agent Morse said flatly. She gestured to Fitz and Simmons. “You two, come with me. I have a room for you to stay in until I can safely put you on a plane.”

“What?” Fitz asked, thrown.

“I’m sending you back to England as soon as I can.” Agent Morse said, sounding surprised. “Once you’re there someone in the MI6 home office will debrief you and file your reports on Whitehall, and send me a report on what kind of corrective action we need to take. Then you’ll be free to go.”

“Go _where_?” Fitz asked incredulously.

“What Fitz means is that well, we’re sort of involved.” Simmons said. She fluttered her hands when Agent Morse refocused on her. “Agent Morse. We ah, we…it would feel strange not knowing what happened.”

“Call me Bobbi.” She said. “And I’ll send along a memo that you aren’t to be cut out. They’ll tell you what happens to Whitehall. And your reports will be pivotal in that, I assure you.” She smiled gently. “But we can’t involve civilians in the op.”

“No, of course not.” Simmons said. She swallowed.

“Don’t want to just sit in a room?” Bobbi asked. Simmons nodded. “I can understand that.”

“They might be helpful in decrypting the journal.” Ward spoke up. “Reinhardt’s code is mostly numbers, and it’ll take time to send it to the codebreakers in London. They could work at it while you clear their departure.”

“Excellent idea.” Agent Morse said. She took the file and passed it to Simmons. “Does that work for you two?”

“Guess so.” Fitz said.

“Then come with me.” Bobbi led them down a hallway that looked innocent if you didn’t notice the half dozen security cameras, to a small suite tucked away under the building. It didn’t have any windows. It did have a room with two beds, an empty closet, a kitchenette with bread, cheese, and bologna in the fridge, and a table. Bobbi laughed slightly as Fitz and Simmons looked around. “I didn’t have the time to outfit it very well. If you want to write up a grocery list, I’ll make it so. Same with clothing.”

“Thank you.” Simmons said, her voice a little bit gushing.

“That’s bloody nice.” Hunter said under his breath. He and Ward had followed them down the hall. Fitz looked past him at Ward, hovering with a blank face at Bobbi’s shoulder. “I hope you two don’t plan on trying to leave.”

“There’s an alarm button in every room. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to buzz.” Bobbi said. She stepped back, out of the room. “But I’ll need 007 and Hunter now.”

“Give me a call if either of you two needs a gun.” Hunter offered. He awkwardly waved one hand. Simmons shook her head fondly. “If I’m still alive after trying to wrangle my compensation from MI6’s stranglehold.”

Bobbi rolled her eyes.

“Ward?” Simmons asked hesitantly. Hunter nudged Bobbi, and they both cleared the way for Ward to stand in the doorway.

Ward held his arms loosely by his sides. “You’ll be safe as long as follow Agent B’s orders. The Russian branch is one of our best.”

Simmons tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you so much. For everything.”

“Thank you for stabbing me in the leg when I needed it.” Ward cracked a smile for an instant, before a stern scowl swallowed it. “MI6 in London can be intimidating. Just make sure to do as they say and you’ll be fine.”

“Right. Will do, again.” Simmons ducked her head and pushed Fitz forward. She shoved him so hard he almost tripped. “Fitz?”

Fitz looked up at Ward. They weren’t going to see each other again, Fitz could sense it in the way Ward was shifting away from him. He didn’t have Ward’s number, or know what part of London he lived in, or if Ward even had any kind of life apart from a bunk in MI6 headquarters. He could ask at MI6, but they wouldn’t tell him. And they might want to know why he was asking.

So Ward did have a reason for not taking him up on that offer. “Well. Have fun with your girls and guns.”

Ward nodded. “Enjoy science.”

Fitz wondered if he could kiss him. He knew he couldn’t. “Stay safe.”

Ward laughed slightly. It made him smile. It was a small smile, just for Fitz. “You too.” Fitz glanced down and up again. Ward stepped away. “Goodbye.”

“Yeah. Bye.” Fitz watched as Ward fell in behind Bobbi. He stood and listened when the lock for their door clicked into place.

Simmons slid her fingers around the crook of his elbow. “Fitz?”

“I don’t think we can really leave, can we?” Fitz asked.

“Probably not.” Simmons said gently. She tugged him back, away from the door. “Come on. I’ll make us a cuppa.”

Fitz followed her back to the stove as she lit the stove. He dropped the thick folder on the table as he went. It landed on the wood with a slap, making both of them jump. Simmons glanced at the file as she climbed onto the counter to search in the cabinets, Fitz hovering beneath just in case.

“I wonder if they would come back if we cracked Reinhardt’s code.” Simmons said. She found a few packets of tea and sat down on the edge of the counter, her heels tapping at the cabinets beneath.

“I think Bobbi was just trying to be nice.” Fitz said morosely. Simmons blushed. “I think she’s taken, Jemma.”

“I know.” Simmons sighed. “All the handsome ones always have a complicated relationship with someone else, so unfair.” Fitz chose not to rise to fact that she was clearly including Ward in her statement. She slid off the counter and began to spread pieces of the file over the table. “I say, this isn’t entirely unlike some of Whitehall’s codes.”

“Really?” Fitz leaned over her shoulder.

“Mhm.” Simmons sat down, patting the area around her for a pencil. Fitz pushed one into her hand as the kettle whistled. She began scribbling as he poured boiling water into two chipped mugs and put one into her unoccupied hand.

Neither of them was ambidextrous, but they had mastered the art of drinking tea with the wrong hand in one hellish night of cramming during their first year of university. Fitz picked up another pencil and sat down beside her to work.

They kept working as the hours passed. MI6 had them underground, and there were no clocks in the room. Fitz mostly tried to focus on where numbers became numbers. It was easier than trying to breach the language barrier—though some bits, strangely enough, looked like they might have been based off English.

Simmons yawned and reached across to pour herself another bit of tea and made a dismayed noise. Fitz looked up. She sadly upended their kettle over her mug, watching the few sad drops trickle out the spout. “We have been working awhile.”

“I’ve almost got it, I think.” Fitz said. He tapped his pencil against the table.

“I’ll get the loo first, then.” Simmons said. She got up and left the room, staying just an instant to rest a hand on his shoulder. Fitz let go of his mug to reach for it and squeeze her fingers. He listened to her footsteps as she walked away.

He kept staring at the numbers. There was something very simple there, a repeating pattern that kept nagging at his brain, getting stronger and stronger as the tea grew more and more bitter. It was something he remembered, something from far, _far_ , back…

“Simmons?” Fitz asked. “Do you remember that paper we had to write on the Manhattan Project?” He heard her feet behind him and turned around. “Because I think this equation is coded—”

The man behind him wasn’t Simmons. Fitz didn’t have time to scream before there was a hood over his eyes, and a sharp pain at the back of his head.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I haven't updated in awhile. I am so so sorry. I have no proper excuse tbh, but I'm going to try to be more consistent in the future :(

A wave of freezing cold water crashed against Fitz’s face.

Fitz gasped and jerked his head up, a dizzying rush of blood swirling around his temples. His vision blurred a moment. A throbbing ache radiated from the back of his head, just above an itch at the base of his skull.

A man with enormous hands stood in front of him holding a hotel icebucket, scowling. He was huge—not just tall enough to tower over Fitz, but probably taller than Ward as well, with massive arms. Fitz wriggled back, feeling his bare calves rub against poorly sanded wood. They’d stripped him down to his underwear.

Fitz shivered, gooseprickles that had only a little bit to do with the water dripping down his chest springing up across his arms. He automatically tried to tug his arms backward to cover his chest. His wrists were duct taped to the arms of the chair, his ankles to the legs.

The man grabbed his chin and forced it up, glaring at his eyes. He was checking for concussion, Fitz realized. He’d seen Simmons do the same thing a half dozen times after lab accidents. Fitz froze on instinct. After a few seconds the man released his head, satisfied.

“Not damaged.” He grunted. There were five other men in the room, all with similar builds. Two were guarding the hotel door, another three beside the window. The blinds were drawn, so only a few rectangles of yellow light made it to the ugly green carpeting. Fitz couldn’t for his life say which underling Creel had addressed.

He swallowed. Fitz could feel water trickling down his spine and soaking into the band of his underwear, mixing with cold sweat. “It’s…Creel, isn’t it? Carl Creel?”

Creel turned his attention back to Fitz, glaring from under his Neanderthal brow. Usually when Fitz saw him he’d been in the loading docks at the bottom of the castle, supervising transport of hazardous materials. He was usually carrying a bigger gun.

“Good memory.” Creel said. He pushed Fitz’s chest with one hand. It was enough to send the chair teetering back. Fitz let out a yelp, jerking forward to try and stabilize himself. Creel laughed, not making any move to keep Fitz from toppling over. Fitz craned his neck behind him. There was the door to the bathroom, and a bed, where two more thugs were settled, their guns on their knees.

Fitz stared at the bruises on his knees as the chair wobbled. He heard Creel say something to his people in Russian. Fitz couldn’t tell if he was angry or if that was just how Russian sounded. Fitz could feel his heart speeding up, battering his ribcage. Oh, god. What happened to the compound full of Agent Wards?

What about _Simmons_? Fitz opened his mouth to ask and closed it. What if they had overlooked her? What if they went back for her after he asked?

“What d’you want with me?” Fitz asked instead, his voice shaking.

“You should have stayed in your laboratory.” Creel said. His voice was very deep. Fitz didn’t argue the point.

Creel stepped around him and picked a file up off the bed. Fitz recognized the transcript of the journal, with his notes scribbled over it. Creel pulled out a page and random and held it in front of Fitz’s face. Fitz’s eyes crossed as he tried to read it.

“You decoded it?” Creel asked. Fitz couldn’t tell if he was supposed to lie. Would Creel know if he lied? Ward always knew, and Bobbi probably, but would they tell him to lie now?  “Yes or No?”

“Yes.” Fitz said. “It’s coded with an equation, you only have to input the letter combinations like variables.” Creel looked down on him. Fitz tried not to tremble. He tried to just think about Ward and Lance and Bobbi. Especially Ward.

“Does the rest of MI6 know?” Creel demanded.

“I’m ah, not technically part of MI6 officially…” Fitz automatically began to correct him. Creel slowly clenched one of his enormous hands into a fist. Fitz looked down at it, his guts turning to ice water. “Yes.” Fitz said. “Yes, I told them everything. Every bloody detail of your plan, and they’re coming for Whitehall right now.”

He glared up at Creel.

Creel laughed. “They know nothing.”

Let him think that. Simmons had been with him, and she was smarter, and they’d done their homework on the bomb together. Whatever was in that journal, she would be able to understand it. And she would tell _Ward_ , and that would be the end of that.

Creel barked something in Russian. One of the guards by the windows came forward. Creel handed him the papers and gave another order. The guard shook his head. Fitz thought he looked scared. Creel raised one hand, his Russian turning to a snarl.

The guard snatched up the papers and hurried from the room. Creel turned back to Fitz, scowling. Fitz looked up at him, trying to keep breathing. Creel eyed Fitz. “She doesn’t want you broken.”

She?

Creel rubbed at his fist. “She’s late.”

The punch caught him square in the stomach, making Fitz rock forward and let out an awful wheezing gasp. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The room swam in front of his eyes as he struggled to keep from throwing up on himself. Fitz looked up at him, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. What was the difference between beaten and broken?

Creel chuckled slightly. It was like that punch had just been to let off a little bit of steam. He leaned close to Fitz’s face. “Are those tears?”

Fitz sucked at his cheeks, focused on Creel’s nose, and spat. The saliva hit just below Creel’s right eye. “Is that a tear, you pierolapithecus?”

Creel stared at him. A thin stream of white froth dripped down his cheek. Fitz glared up at him, petty satisfaction thrumming through his body. Creel reached up slowly with one glove, trying to wipe it off. It smeared instead. Fitz felt another burst of angry satisfaction.

Creel stepped back. He pulled off one glove, then the other. Fitz swallowed, staring at his hands. They were deformed, as if they had been broken very badly once and not put together quite properly. Scars traced the knuckles. Creel snarled something in Russian and one of the men from the bed behind Fitz came hurrying forward. He was holding a set of what looked vaguely like boxing gloves.

Only when Fitz looked closer, he saw metal glinting from under the worn fabric cover. Fitz didn’t think that was legal. He could still each distinct impression of Creel’s knuckles against his chest. Creel slid on the gloves. His subordinate scuttled back, clearly not wanting to be anywhere in the vicinity.

Creel rotated his wrists. Fitz heard metal clanking.

The window burst inward with an almighty crash. Shards of glass went spraying over the room. Fitz shrieked and ducked his head. Creel spun, blocking his face with his forearms. A blur in a suit landed in the center of the room. Gunshots barked twice and the men guarding the door collapsed.

Fitz let out a moan of relief as Ward spun, looking for him. “Fitz!”

Creel launched himself at Ward, howling. Ward’s eyes widened and he dodged back. He went toward the far wall and fired at Creel from there, across the room. The men by the window didn’t shoot at him—Fitz had a vague idea that Creel would be in the crossfire, one he didn’t have a chance to develop before Ward fired and they went down.

“There’s two more behind me!” Fitz shouted. Ward stared at him, face suggesting that Fitz should have _stayed quiet_. It occurred to Fitz then that he was a much closer target.

Ward went low and ran along the wall, toward Fitz. Fitz felt metal at the back of his neck and then Ward had fired and the brief touch was gone. Ward bounded past him. Fitz’s chair wobbled as someone slammed against the floor. He twisted frantically, trying to see Ward.

Then Ward came hurtling back into his view, still fighting. There were only two left, discounting Creel, and Ward had flipped one over and punched the other, sending the guard reeling. Fitz couldn’t follow the fight for his life. All he could guess was that Ward was winning, spinning on the balls of his feet and kicking one beneath the chin.

Fitz didn’t know that people could _move_ like that.

That left Creel. Fitz’s eyed widened as he charged at Ward, his metal gloves up. Ward ducked under his hit and came up swinging, landing a hit across Creel’s face that broke his nose. Ward was fast enough to launch himself back as the blood sprayed.

He wasn’t fast enough to duck Creel’s kick. It sent Ward staggering back and Fitz gasped as Ward hit the ground. He glared up at Creel, arms under his chest, and launched himself to a crouch. He darted forward, sinuously fast, and grabbed Creel’s leg, jerking him off balance. Ward slid to his feet as Creel staggered and planted a kick square in his crotch. Creel howled and Ward sent an elbow into his forehead. Creel went flying back.

He hit the ground on his back, disoriented, with blood dripping into his eyes. Even so he shoved his fist against the ground and pushed. A cracking sound came from under the floorboard. Ward dove for the closest body. He slid to the ground beside it and snatched a gun from one of the dead men’s hands. He raised it and shot twice rapidly, one bullet in Creel’s head and the other in his chest.

This time when Creel collapsed, he didn’t move again.

Ward looked at Fitz, panting. “Are you okay?”

“Bit cold.” Fitz said. He cleared his throat self-consciously, trying to inch back in his seat. Ward emptied the gun into Creel and tossed the empty weapon away, striding across the room toward Fitz. He didn’t have a spot of blood on his suit. Fitz’s knees twitched as he automatically tried to push them together.

Ward’s eyes were dark and worried. “Are you sure?”

“Wrists itch a bit and I’m bloody freezing.” Fitz said, breathing quickly. Ward knelt down in front of him, hands going for the duct tape as he checked for injuries. His eyes went to Fitz’s stomach and quickly dropped to the tent in his underwear.

“So we know your circulation is fine.” Ward said. He looked up at Fitz, eyes still dark. Fitz could see the flush of exertion on his cheekbones. His warm hands went to Fitz’s knees, steadying them. Fitz took a deep breath as Ward massaged his knees. The heat from his hands sent spikes shooting all over Fitz’s body.

“I suppose spies don’t wear briefs.” Fitz managed, his voice slightly choked. His erection was almost painful.

“Spies don’t wear anything.” Ward replied. One of his hands slid from Fitz’s knee up his thigh, fingers rubbing the inside. Ward looked down, his hand drawing back into a fist. “I’m going to get you out of the chair.”

“Do.” Fitz said, looking down at the crown of Ward’s head. The fight had rumpled his hair, creating all sort of interesting places that Fitz could imagine grabbing. The muscles in his stomach clenched. Ward’s hands went down his legs, not breaking contact as they slid to Fitz’s ankles. “Ward?”

Ward’s head snapped up. The flush on his face had traveled. Fitz groaned slightly. This kind of not breathing was a thousand times worse than being punched in the stomach. “What do you need?”

Fitz almost choked. “Hands first. Please.”

Ward nodded. He raised himself up on his knees, and reached across Fitz’s lap. He put one hand on Fitz’s upper thigh to steady himself as he began to tug at the corner of the tape. His fingers were tantalizingly close. Fitz bit down on his lip, hard, to suppress a whine. Ward took his hand off Fitz’s leg to wiggle forward, so he was entirely between Fitz’s knees. Fitz could feel him breathing heavily as he worked at Fitz’s wrist.

All Fitz really had to do was lean forward.

“Quiet.” Ward said suddenly. Fitz let out the breath he was holding as Ward slid to his feet and stepped out of Fitz’s personal space. He bent down and grabbed the gun he’d dropped. His face was cold again as he cocked it. He was looking at the door. Whatever the instinct that had tipped him off, Fitz couldn’t feel it. All he could feel was cold air between his legs.

He jumped in his seat as the door came crashing in and an inordinately handsome black man in a sharp cut blue suit leapt into the room. His eyes snapped from Ward to Fitz to the bodies as he tried to decide where to point the weapon. Not surprisingly, he chose Ward.

Ward’s gun was up too. Something told Fitz that neither of them missed often. The newcomer slowly paced into the room, still between them and the door.

“Organization and rank?” He asked Ward. They circled each other warily.

“You first.” Ward replied.

“Nah.” The man said. He sounded American. His shirt was crisp white, and his shoes shone. “Cause there’s no bodies on my side of the door.”

“As far as I know.” Ward pointed out.

The man laughed. “Fair point.”

“Hold on.” Fitz said suddenly. “I recognize you. You were at Whitehall’s party.” The man glanced at Fitz. “You were in the white opera scarf, you came into the bathroom!” Fitz remembered the laugh.

“I knew I’d seen you before.” The man said. He toed over one of the bodies. “Strikes me we might all be friends here.”

“Or we might not.” Ward said coldly.

“Yeah, people at Whitehall’s parties aren’t really people we consider friends.” Fitz added.

“Alright.” The man said, nodding. “Another fair point. But I’m gonna put my gun down anyway while we’re talking because I’m reading the MI6 vibe off your tall angry friend here, and I’m thinking that maybe we can help each other.” He lowered his gun.

Ward eyed him suspiciously for a second, then carefully lowered his. “Ward. Grant Ward. Agent 007 in her majesty’s secret service.”

“Nice to meet you. Agent Antoine Triplett, CIA.” Agent Triplett opened his jacket to put his gun in a wide leather holster beneath his arm. Ward slid his into his pants. “I don’t suppose you left any of these men alive for interrogation?”

“Afraid not.” Ward said, not sounding at all sorry. He went back to Fitz and bent over him, ripping the duct tape off.

“This might help.” Trip said. He took a ballpoint out of his pocket and tossed it to Ward. Ward caught it with one hand. He looked at it for a second then, holding it very far away from his face, pressed down on the end. A very fine red laser shone from the tip.

“Oh that’s nice.” Fitz said, looking down on it as Ward sliced through his bonds. Neither of them looked at Fitz’s still settling erection. “How come you don’t have one of those?”

“Ask Q.” Ward said, crouching down to get Fitz’s feet. “What’s CIA doing in Moscow?”

“Same reason MI6 is here.” Trip said. Ward finished with Fitz’s bonds and Fitz staggered to his feet, rotating his wrists. Ward grabbed him when he wobbled. “I assume.”

“The CIA never said they were interested in Daniel Whitehall.” Ward said, eyes still more on Fitz.

“Whitehall?” Trip asked. He looked bewildered. “I’m here about the girl.”

“Girl?” Ward looked at him, with an identical expression of confusion.

“The one who coordinated Creel and his people.” Trip said. “I’ve been chasing her over three continents.” He looked at Fitz. “Was she here?”

“Creel did mention a she.” Fitz said hesitantly. He awkwardly rubbed one arm. “I er, can’t say she ever showed up.”

“Must have known something was wrong.” Trip muttered. “Left the rest of them to be…” Trip glanced around the room. “MI6-ed.”

“There’ll be a cleanup crew here in an hour.” Ward said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a comms link, putting it in his ear. His face went blank as he listened. “They’re on the way. Apparently management at this hotel is known for their cooperation in that regard.”

“You in charge?” Trip asked.

“No. Agent Morse directs out of Moscow. She directed me here.” Ward said. He glanced at Fitz, awkwardly standing with his hands on the chair arm, hoping it blocked his crotch. “Fitz. Here.” Ward slid his jacket off his shoulder and gave it to him.

Fitz gratefully accepted the jacket. Ward had heated it up, and the inside was silky again his bare skin. He buttoned up the front and tried to brace himself for facing a team of MI6 agents without pants on. When he looked at Trip, the agent was looking into the distance, as if the thought of laughing had never even crossed his mind. Ward was talking quietly into his comm link.

“Morse says she’s open to collaboration.” Ward said. Trip grinned. “Our assessment says that there was probably a woman involved in the museum heist. She would have bribed the security guard. Think it could have been yours?”

“Sounds like her.” Trip agreed.

“If you can give me specifics we can search the database for you before we’re back at base.” Ward said. “Do you have her stats on record?

“Her name is Raina, and that’s all we have. She wipes herself out of our records every time we get our hands on her.” Trip said. “But I’ve met her in person a few times. Five two, about one twenty, black, curly black hair. And she wears flower dresses.”

Ward stopped relaying the information. He sighed, his eyes closing. “Flower dresses?”

“Always.”

Ward grimaced. “We’ve seen her.”

\--

Simmons’s hug almost knocked Fitz off his feet. She wrapped her arms around him with a gasp, almost making his knees buckle. Fitz grabbed her back, half just so he wouldn’t fall over. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Simmons said. She stepped away from him, wiping her eyes. “I was in the loo, they didn’t find me. You?”

“I’m fine. Ward got me out.” Fitz looked over his shoulder for Ward. The cleanup crew hadn’t brought them back to the original base. They brought them back to a different safehouse, this one in a basement at the outskirts of Moscow.

Ward was standing with Trip and Bobbi, engaged in a low voiced discussion.

“Well, I knew Ward was going to get you.” Simmons said, quieter. “He was very angry, you know. As soon as they had the satellites pin down your location, he was off. Wouldn’t wait for the unit to assemble.”

“Really?” Fitz looked over again. Ward looked up from his discussion. Their eyes met. Ward kept looking at him until Bobbi gestured at him sharply and brought him back to the conversation.

“Hunter was angry too.” Simmons added. “He and Bobbi were the first people there when I pushed the button.”

“I’m glad they didn’t find you.” Fitz muttered.

“They didn’t have much time to look.” Simmons said. She shook her head briskly. “I pushed the panic button—they have one right over the toilet—then hid in the linen cabinet. I was small enough to fit.”

“You hit the button _first_?!” Fitz spluttered.

“It was all I could do for you!” Simmons exclaimed. “I couldn’t exactly go out and fight them, I was hoping they would leave you when they heard the alarms go off! They didn’t, of course.” She shook her head. “And we still don’t know how they got in or out. Bobbi’s was very upset. She thinks she’ll have to reevaluate her relationship with the Russian service, they’re the only ones with the resources to get their hands on plans of a MI6 base. Though _why_ they chose to sell…”

“Apparently there’s a persuasive woman on the run from the CIA in the area.” Fitz said. He nodded at Trip. “She was in charge of the ones who got me.”

“Oh, you picked up a CIA agent?” Simmons looked around Fitz at Trip. “Oh, _my_.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Shut up Fitz.” Simmons said. She peered over his shoulder another minute. “I suppose I have to help you find some pants before going and talking to him.”

“That would be appreciated.” Fitz deadpanned. He looked over his shoulder again. Ward’s arms were crossed, his head down. “Actually, just a second.” He tugged the jacket more firmly around his shoulders and headed to where the spies were talking. All three immediately stopped talking. “Excuse me?”

“Fitz.” Bobbi stepped forward. “I want to personally apologize. You should have been safe.”

“I…” Fitz blinked, derailed. “Not really your fault, was it?” Bobbi shook her head silently. “Anyway. I wanted to tell you that Ward took out the whole room and saved my life again.” He crossed his arms. “I was practically being tortured. I could have _died_ before a proper team got there.”

Bobbi’s eyebrows rose. Fitz stuck out his chin obstinately. She laughed quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not taking a disciplinary action.”

“You’re not?” Fitz asked. Ward looked just as surprised.

“I get how he felt.” Bobbi said. She smiled at Fitz. “Go find some pants.”

“Ah. Yes ma’am.” Fitz backed away, almost bumping into Simmons. She smiled up at Trip.

Trip caught her eye and grinned back. He nodded at her. “What’s up, girl?”

“Ah. Just finding my friend here some pants.” Simmons said, clutching Fitz’s arm.

“Check the crawl space. There’s always some pants mixed in with the ammunition and canned goods.” Trip advised. Simmons nodded quickly. He grinned at her again before Ward barked at him to pay attention to the tactics plan.

“You should have asked him if you could have his.” Fitz said under his breath as Simmons and he scurried away.

“Oh, I am _not_ taking flirting advice from _you_ , of all people.” Simmons groused. “I bet you didn’t even kiss Ward when he rescued you.”

Fitz supposed she had a point there.

\--

Ward, to his credit, was more focused on talking to Bobbi and Trip than watching Fitz’s arse as he walked away. He’d almost forgotten about his sexual frustration in the professional frustration of knowing that a key piece had just _walked_ out of a museum under his nose. All he’d noticed was her damn cigarette case.

“My people are hacking the security feeds around the city as we speak.” Bobbi said, beckoning him and Trip to the room serving as her office. There was no laser grid outside this one, though Ward noticed that her receptionist had donned a bulletproof vest over her professional blouse. Bobbi led them into her new office—a room that wasn’t really an office, just a square room holding a collection of somewhat comfortable looking furniture, and half the components of a kitchen—and leaned against the back of the couch. She crossed her arms. “We’ll get her. Soon.”

She was furious. Ward could see it simmering under her calm.

“She’s slippery.” Trip warned. He leaned forward, putting his forearms on the back of a chair. “Never underestimate her.”

“Been chasing her long?” Bobbi asked.

“Five years.” Trip shook his head. “In between ops and during ops and whenever I get a bit of free time. Makes my life a little less boring.”

Ward didn’t comment on that. “When will we have a location?”

“Believe me, they’ll tell me when we do.” Bobbi said. She paused, studying him. “I assume you want to be on the team I take in to catch her.” Ward nodded. “Good. I want you there.”

“Russians going to mind you taking her?” Trip asked. “Cause I guarantee you, she’ll have a citizen identity.”

“She’s apparently convinced the Russians to sell out their intel on my base.” Bobbi said, her voice suddenly harsh. Trip winced. “This isn’t SMERSH era, they had _no right_. I’ve had tea with their regional director, that they would participate in a _flagrant_ breach of trust…” Bobbi took a deep breath.

“Remind me to tell my office to not piss you off.” Trip said. The receptionist knocked at the door. Bobbi took two steps across the room and bent down to speak to her quietly. “So, Fitz and...”

“Simmons.” Ward said icily.

“Right. They don’t seem like MI6.” Trip said. Ward eyed him. Trip laughed. “Relax, man. I’m just trying to get my bearings.”

“They’re civilians.” Ward said. “I brought them in for intelligence reasons.”

“They both looked very intelligent.” Trip allowed.

Bobbi dismissed the receptionist. “We have a location on the girl.” Trip made an impressed noise. She smiled. “We’re go. Ward, you want to go get your jacket back from Fitz?”

Ward nodded. “How long will it take your team to assemble?”

“Ten minutes. Did you listen at all when I was explaining this earlier?” Bobbi asked. Ward didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes and gestured for him to go. “Someone will have put them up in a room down the hall. I’m leaving Lance to look after them.”

That was reassuring. Ward headed through the base. This time they had put Fitz and Simmons in the thick of things, not a relatively isolated safe room. They would have ample time to fill out debriefing reports with Hunter. The door was propped open when Ward approached. He could hear Simmons’s more cheerful voice, and Hunter’s grumpy tone.

Ward paused a second, looking through the crack of the door. The three of them were clustered around a coffee table, Simmons clutching a mug of tea and looking over a three inch pile of papers. “I don’t see how we’re supposed to fill these out in one night! I don’t think I’ve ever had to sign this many documents in my life!”

“Bloody ridiculous isn’t it?” Lance asked. He had his feet on his set of paperwork. Ward smiled slightly.

Fitz wasn’t saying anything. He was settled at the corner of the couch, his chin propped on the base of his hand as he watched the other two trying to understand the paperwork. MI6’s stock of casual clothing was very limited, so all they’d had to give him was a slightly overlarge t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Ward’s jacket was tossed over the back of the couch next to him.

Ward cleared his throat. “The trick is making your signature so simple it doesn’t cramp your hand.”

Simmons jumped. “Ward!”

“Ever considered making noise when you walk, mate?” Lance grumbled. His feet had jerked hard enough to knock half the papers off his third of the coffee table.

Ward looked at Fitz. He had sat up. “Hey. I need my jacket back.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Fitz said. He got to his feet and picked up the jacket. Ward’s eyes slipped over him as Fitz navigated between the chairs. He wasn’t moving stiffly enough for any real damage to have been done. The medical who checked him out in the car ride over had been right. “Here.” Fitz held out the jacket.

Ward took it. “We’re going after the woman who organized this.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Fitz said, looking relieved. He frowned. “Is that going to be safe?”

Ward laughed. “Seriously?”

“Stupid question.” Fitz agreed. “Sorry.”

Ward paused. “Are you doing alright?”

Fitz shrugged. “The worst part was the itching, honestly. I don’t imagine I’ll sleep well tonight but I’m fine.”

“Tell Hunter I’ll shoot him if he falls asleep.” Ward said, deadly serious.

“I think Bobbi already did.”

“Good.” Ward stepped back. “Anyway. Speaking of. The team assembles pretty quickly.”

“Still too slow for you though?” Fitz asked quietly. Ward shrugged. He was choosing not to dwell on the crack of panic he’d felt when he heard the alarms in the base go off, and the fury that curled in his stomach when he found Bobbi helping Simmons out of the cabinet and Fitz gone. There had been pacing, and then the location, and then he’d hijacked a car, and then _finally_ someone to fight.

“See you when we get back.” Ward said. He awkwardly waved with one hand, then swore in his head. He was _trained_ in social assimilation, and that was his best? Fitz nodded to him. Ward backed out and began down the hallway. He heard footsteps behind him and turned.

Fitz’s hands caught his shoulders, tugging him down gently. Ward pressed his lips to Fitz’s, hands going to the other man’s torso to tug him closer. Fitz fit there. Heat curled at the base of his abdomen.

Fitz broke away. “I forgot to say thank you. That’s all.”

\--

Bobbi’s people were some of the most efficient Ward had ever seen. Raina’s account for her museum wages had never been touched, but they’d been able to trace the dummy address she put to register for it to a different account, and close in on the area of the city she most frequented. From there it was tracing images and calling landlords until they found the right apartment.

Her building was perfectly ordinary.

They began the infiltration at nightfall. The task team’s job was to discreetly surround the building—Bobbi had men in cars, on the adjacent roofs, waiting at the base of fire escapes and, at Trip’s behest, waiting in the sewers. It was more backup than Ward was used to, and he couldn’t say whether he liked it.

Nor whether he liked having two other agents. M much preferred to keep her people spread out, both for security purposes and for efficiency. One MI6 agent should have been able to tear down a government in an afternoon.

Judging by Trip’s face, this mission was going to be much more complicated. Bobbi was on point, with Trip and Ward each taking one of her corners. They waited outside the door while she walked into lobby, textbook sheepishness in the lines of her face.

She approached the night watchmen casually, ducking her head and rubbing the back of her neck as she explained. His face softened in sympathy, and he reached beneath this desk, probably for a set of spare keys.

The hand concealed at the back of her neck snapped down, hypodermic sliding through his uniform into his basilic vein. The guard dropped without a sound. Bobbi raised a hand, signaling the all clear.

Trip had warned them against the elevator, so they went up the stairs. Her apartment was on the sixth floor, too high to feasibly jump, not too high to climb out a window. Bobbi pressed the door to the hallway open with her shoulders, creating an ever so slight crack for her to look out before swinging into the hallway, gun raised.

“Clear.” She breathed. Ward and Trip entered after her, spreading out. Trip’s eyes flickered up, and Ward saw tiny entrances to the ventilation system. “G6 is at the end.”

“Corner room.” Trip confirmed. They stalked toward the door, feet light on the thin carpeting.

A door lurched open. Bobbi snapped around, ready to strike, and a large man in a tank top peered out at them. “Who’r you?”

He asked it in Russian, slurred by alcohol. Bobbi rapidly put her gun behind her back, a winning smile in place. “I’m Laura. Your neighbor told me I could just come up?” Her body arced slightly, just enough to pull his attention fully on parts other than her hands.

“Petrov said?” The man asked suspiciously. Bobbi nodded. Ward looked past him into the apartment. He could see a couch. An empty coffee table. The neighbor was holding a darkly tinted bottle in one hand, a drink to match his slurred voice.

“Down!” Ward shouted, grabbing Bobbi’s arm and yanking her back. Trip launched himself forward, reaching for the arm with the bottle. He was fast, more than fast enough to break the neighbor’s arm in two places and send the bomb clattering the ground. Bobbi spun out of Ward’s grasp and kicked it backwards, into the empty apartment. Ward followed up by kicking the neighbor square in the stomach, sending him lurching backward.

Trip snapped the door shut and spun, hands over his ears. Ward and Bobbi mimicked him.

The explosion was relatively minor, just a soft enough thump to make the door vibrate and bulge out, hot air swirling out from under the doorjamb. Ward sniffed, gauging the composition. There were only a few explosives that could be hidden in a bottle like that.

“Thanks.” Bobbi said. She tossed her hair back, eyes lingering for a second on the door. Ward nodded and adjusted his cufflinks. “Trip, odds that she has more men in her room?”

“Low. She’s big on privacy.” Trip said. He adjusted his tie.

“Take point.” Bobbi instructed. She touched one of her earrings, modest gold studs. “Code 27, begin cleanup after agents clear the building.” She took her hand away and fell in with Ward as Trip led the way down the hallway, feet kicking for wires.

When they reached the corner door, he kicked it down, going in with gun ready. Ward and Bobbi followed him, fanning out to cover all points of exit.

The girl in the flower dress was waiting for them, perched on a chair in the center of the room with one leg crossed over the other and her hands folded on her knees. She had switched to a dress of shimmering gold fabric, with a pattern of black roses.

She was wearing the diadem, golden circlets nestled in raven black curls. Her eyes peeped out from beneath the tightly woven gold where it hung low over her forehead. Tassels of gold hung on either side of her face, resting gently on her shoulders. When the light hit her, she nearly glowed.

She smiled up at Trip. “Hey, baby.”

Trip lowered his gun. “Long time no see. New dress?”

Raina smiled modestly. “I think gold suits me.”

“You look gorgeous, girl.” Trip said. He nodded to Bobbi. “Cuff her fast.”


End file.
